


Star Wars Episode III: The Risen Sith

by GoodHunterAnais, Slippin_Jimmy



Series: The Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst/Fun/Action/Politics/All the Other Moods You'd Expect from a Prequel Rewrite, Book length, Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 107,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26463424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodHunterAnais/pseuds/GoodHunterAnais, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slippin_Jimmy/pseuds/Slippin_Jimmy
Summary: A splintered Confederacy. A reeling Republic. Standing among the ruins are the Jedi Order, their place as the galaxy's protectors on a knife's edge—and Anakin Skywalker, who at long last must choose a side. (Part 3 of the prequel trilogy rewrite "The Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times" by GoodHunterAnais and Slippin Jimmy)
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: The Skywalker Legend: Before the Dark Times [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1047932
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue: A New Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone, and welcome back! We're getting off the ground a little later than we'd planned due to the world exploding, but we're incredibly excited to be bringing you the finale of _Before the Dark Times_. It's the biggest undertaking we've ever embarked on, and we hope you enjoy the ride with us.
> 
> As we stated toward the conclusion of _The Shadow Within_ , we were unhappy with how that episode turned out for a few reasons, one of which was being held hostage by our posting schedule. To avoid that this time, we won't be posting chapters weekly. Instead, we'll be publishing chapters in groups. Each time a new group is finished, we'll post the entire thing at a rate of one chapter per day—then, there will be a break while we write the next group. This method is more spread out than our previous one, but we're hoping it will allow us a better fic/life balance and also allow us to put more time into writing high-quality chapters.
> 
> Again, thanks so much for reading! May the Force be with you.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . . .

_ STAR WARS _

_ Episode III  _

_ The Risen Sith _

War rages on across the galaxy. Though their admiral has vanished, the Confederacy of Independent Systems is unrelenting in their attacks against the Republic. 

Outlying star systems change hands by the day, their populations worn and battered by conflict. Resentment for the fabled Jedi Order brews as its Knights, abandoning the battlefield in favor of their own pursuits, scour the galaxy for the SITH LORD Darth Maul.

As the fruitless hunt for the Sith continues, Maul has summoned his apprentice from hiding. Aboard their flagship, the two stand ready for their first and final strike at the heart of the galaxy . . . .

* * *

All that stood between Valis and the stars was a pane of glass.

The thought was poetic rather than precise—the “glass” was foot-thick transparisteel, and a blast shield would immediately drop should any crack in that layer be detected—but Valis could never shake it any time she looked through a viewport into open space. The only thing separating her from a frigid death was so insubstantial that it felt as though she could reach through it and touch the void.

As apt a metaphor for her life these past years as any, she thought. Herself on one side, an abyss on the other, the only thing separating them a barrier that was at once rigid and impossibly precarious.

Beside her, a tiny droid assistant chittered an inquiring burst of noises. “No,” she replied, not taking her eyes from the window, “I’m not nervous. Just . . . it’s strange to be back here, is all.”

Her quarters on the  _ Charybdis _ remained largely unchanged—all her personal effects were gone, of course, taken with her when she’d disappeared, but her “successor” as commander of the craft hadn’t seen fit to rearrange much. The bar was still there, fully stocked; the furniture hadn’t changed. It showed an appalling lack of imagination, really—she’d told the new admiral as much before Maul had him thrown out the airlock to christen her return.

Still, she supposed it was good to have something of the familiar back in place. Even as it was, the  _ Charybdis _ felt like a uniform that no longer quite fit. When she’d left it to Maul’s keeping, disappearing to fulfill his master’s demand that she die, she had still been Admiral Valis of the Confederacy. She’d molded herself to fit this ship’s confines, to be of a piece with it.

Now, she was Darth Valis, Lady of the Sith. And she’d become used to making things fit  _ her _ .

The ship was no different. She had a purpose for it now. One the man who’d commissioned it had never in his wildest dreams intended.

Her commlink buzzed with an incoming call; taking a moment to wrest herself from her reverie, she reached down and accepted. “This is Valis.”

“ _ Just finished inspection, Seph—ahh, my lady. Everything is good to go across the board on all the cruisers. We’ll be ready on your mark. _ ”

Valis suppressed a snort—that was another self she still carried within her. Sephone Valis, mercenary—a role she’d been forced to reprise more and more often since she and Maul had hatched their plan, since she’d had to call on the help of certain old . . . well,  _ allies _ was the wrong word. “Thank you, Gavin. Stand by—and do be more careful with your memory.”

“ _ Yes, my lady. _ ”

She’d known Gavin far longer than she’d been an admiral, let alone a Sith, and didn’t begrudge him the slip, but she knew Maul would. She could ill afford having her new partners be tortured into respectfulness by her fellow Sith—especially because, as she’d emphasized to Maul repeatedly lately, this wasn’t a one-and-done operation.

For better or worse, this was a coalition.

She looked back out the viewport, at the assembly she’d brought together.  _ She _ —Maul had had nothing to do with this, serving merely as the stick to her carrot. It was  _ her _ network that had brought them this view—cruisers, corvettes, one- and two-man cargo haulers retrofitted with weaponry. Ragtag on their own, to be sure, but seeing them interspersed with the Confederate vessels Maul had brought to the table—assorted deathbox frigates, fighter platforms, and of course the  _ Charybdis _ itself—their scrappiness faded away.

Taken together, this fleet, this  _ moment _ , was the sum total of all her efforts. Of all her different selves. As faithful an expression of her personhood as was possible.

She’d made herself, through persistence and intelligence and sheer bloody-mindedness, a single life.

And in a few moments, that life would shatter once again. Reforge itself into something new.

The droid chittered again, and Valis let out a long, slow sigh. “Yes, Mate. I know.” Closing her eyes, she spoke—not through her comm, but a different connection altogether.  _ It’s time. Ready for me? _

_ I have been,  _ came the curt reply.  _ We’ll be waiting. _

Nodding, Valis opened her eyes and took one last look at her reflection in the viewport. Gone was the grey admiral’s uniform of old—her new garments were black, a bone-white cape draped across her shoulders, a cylinder of metal clipped prominently to her belt. Her face, too, had changed—a line, ragged and sinuous, ran across, left behind by a lightwhip’s glancing blow two years ago.

She very much hoped the person she was about to speak to would recognize her nonetheless.

Turning from the viewport, she swept out of her quarters toward the turbolift, taking precise, measured strides. Headed for the Restricted Deck. For Maul.

For the end of one life, and the beginning of another.

* * *

The warlord’s chambers were once ringed by obsidian stones—placed there by his master, who told him they would be useful as an aid for meditation. Maul has never regretted the day he smashed them—the day he first revealed to Valis who she truly was. His thoughts were  _ clear _ that day, for the first time in who knew how long, and have only gotten clearer.

Today, for the first time since the war began, there is once again a circle around the chamber’s perimeter. Not stones, however—a mixed bag of figures, heights and sizes and silhouettes all different. People. In chains.

Psoriss Threll, Archon of Sluis Van, her tongue darting through the air as if to taste the doom awaiting her. Wat Tambor, foreman of the Techno Union, his quaking hands conveying what his masked face cannot. Prime Minister Ruala Yi of Kamino, her eyelids sweeping down and up in a quarter-blink that among her species signifies absolute shock, over and over again. The heads of Fondor Armories, Sluis Van Shipyards, Muunilinst Wealth Management, and so on and so on, around the circle, until it arrives at the captive directly in front of Maul’s chair. Welleth Mekosk, Chief Executor of the Confederacy, his face gone white as his suit.

As Maul waits for Valis to arrive, he paces around the circle, over and over again, looking each board member in the eyes with his own amber gaze. Most cannot look at him for more than a moment before glancing downward at the floor; Ruala Yi, to her credit, does not divert her gaze. Mekosk doesn’t look at anything at all—he stares as though he’s looking through the physical, into whatever awaits him beyond.

“ _ Progress through opposition, _ ” Maul hisses as he draws near to the man. He pauses his steps for a moment to focus on him—the errand boy Maul’s master saw fit to throw in his way as soon as the war had truly begun. “Was it you who made that the motto of the Confederacy? Carved it into the Acropolis lobby?”

A twisted grin of rotted teeth plays across Maul’s face. His teacher, the Confederacy’s puppeteer, probably thought up the slogan himself.  _ Fitting,  _ Maul thinks. Progress through opposition is the way of the Sith. Beyond merely opposing the Jedi, they oppose even themselves, ensuring only the most powerful darkness survives. 

It is how Maul came to be. Groomed by his master for as long as he can remember, his destiny fulfilled as a teenager when he snuck up behind the elder Sith’s previous apprentice and slit his throat. His master has never confirmed it, but Maul suspects the lineage of his apprentices goes on and on like this, each student having killed their predecessor. 

Maul will be the first to turn this on its head. 

When Mekosk speaks, none of his former easy arrogance is there. He stammers, fumbling over syllables, as though he’s half forgotten how to talk. “Maul,” he says, still staring past the chamber into the void, “I—whatever it is you want, it will be easier for you to get if we’re alive. N-none of our territories’ leadership will recognize you if we aren’t alive to—to turn things over to—”

Sneering, Maul twitches a gloved finger. Mekosk’s entire head rotates on his neck, until he’s looking at the warlord, though the glazed surface of his eyes does not clear. The Zabrak leans in and bares his teeth in a cracked smile. “What I  _ want _ is something you cannot give me.”

And there it goes—his final chance to turn back. The last opportunity to return the board to their cozy positions, to perhaps convince Sidious that he’s no traitor. 

It would work, for a while. Then he’d fall victim to Sidious’ next student. Not today, of course. Maybe in a year, maybe in a decade. But it will happen.

There’s only one future in which Maul himself takes the throne. And it’s standing just outside the chamber door.

“Enter,” he growls. With a muted  _ whoosh _ of stale air, the door sweeps open, and Valis is here.

This, more than any of Maul’s threat display, seems to rouse the captive board from its catatonia. Mekosk’s vision goes suddenly clear, his pupils dilating as they focus on a woman he’s believed for two years to be dead. Ruala Yi tilts her head forward in involuntary surprise. Tambor lets a low moan escape his mask.

Licking his lips, Mekosk stammers, then rallies, summoning a pale ghost of his executor’s voice. “Valis, control him—see reason, I beg you, and we can talk terms.”

Maul turns his head to take in Valis’s response. She pauses just behind him in the center of the circle, and meets Mekosk’s gaze. In her eyes Maul sees disgust, but no pity. The corner of her mouth twitches just enough to make her suppressed smile clear. “Why, Welleth, you know no one can control Maul. You’ve been complaining about it for the last five years.”

It’s as good a signal as any.

Maul rips his saber from his belt. From either end bursts a blade of crimson plasma.

And then, he’s moving.

There’s no intervention—none of the pampered, useless aristocrats here have ever considered the self-defense training necessary to pose even the whisper of a threat to him, even were they not on their knees. What he performs is not battle, it is butchery.

Lightsaber blades rotate back and forth, spearing left and right, whirling in broad slashes. Ruala Yi is the first to fall, her head and the top two feet of her neck separated from her body with a searing stroke. Tambor is speared through the gut, emitting an electronic gurgle through his mask; Kir’Zas Dront loses her hands with one flick of Maul’s wrist, then is bisected neatly from head to toe.

Steadily, relentlessly, he moves through the room. Each step is an execution, each breath a deathblow.

Finally, Mekosk is the only one left.

Here is the man who’s been Sidious’s puppet from the day he threw Czerka in with the Confederacy. Who oversaw the ridiculous Lancer project, laid campaigns and operations between Maul and Valis, used all his power as a board member to keep the warlord in check. To, whether he knew it or not, prevent any chance of  _ true _ victory. Whose entire existence, from the moment he entered the war, has been devoted to staying in Maul’s way.

He whimpers, and raises his hand in a gesture that’s both a pathetic attempt to ward the Zabrak off and a plea for mercy. “Maul . . . Valis . . . whatever it is you’re doing, I—”

Maul takes the hand, and gives Mekosk a few moments to scream about it. Then he reaches into the dark side and snaps the Chief Executor’s neck.

The wet  _ thump _ of the man’s body sprawling forward reverberates through the chamber. When that fades, all that remains is the hum of Maul’s blades hanging in the air.

Time seems to slow, the crackle of his saberstaff sliding into a low drone. Curls of smoke rise from the bodies in elegant patterns, a painting whose brushstrokes Maul is responsible for. It is, he thinks, the most beautiful thing any of the souls these corpses belonged to was ever part of.

From behind him, Valis simply says, “You could have left him for me.”

Maul snorts, too pleased to hide genuine amusement, and retracts the blades of his saberstaff. “Your battle comes soon enough.”

Even as the joke leaves his mouth, he takes a step back from the center of the room and twists his hand. A hatch slides back, revealing the holoprojector embedded in the floor. Wordlessly, Maul inputs the only frequency this device has ever been attuned to—the only person it’s ever called.

Then he retreats further, into the shadows. Nods at Valis.

He’ll reveal himself when it’s time. But if there’s one thing his master has finally taught him, it’s the virtue of patience.

Valis nods back, then looks upward as an amalgam of blue scan lines flickers to life. Maul can only see it from the back, but he knows what Valis sees—a visage that’s etched itself into his brain. Perhaps the most famous face in the galaxy.

Through the scan lines, he sees Valis smirk. “Greetings,” she says, “Chancellor Palpatine.”

* * *

Valis had fantasized about this moment since she was a girl. Put the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic in front of her, she would have said, and there would have been no shortage of choice words hurled in his direction. Insults, curses, cries of pain and anger at what the Republic had done to her. Had taken from her.

Now, though, staring into Palpatine’s face, she realized that what she was about to do would be infinitely more satisfying. Deliberate.

For several seconds, Palpatine simply stared at the scene before him—Valis at the center, a ring of bodies on all sides. To his credit, Valis, thought, he could  _ almost _ hide what was rushing through his mind. Almost. But she saw his hand suddenly tighten around the datapad it held, saw his pupils go just a touch wider, saw his jaw clench as he took in a sight he could not have been prepared to see. Sephone Valis, very much alive, two years after he’d told Maul to murder her. And the entirety of the Executive Board he’d installed lying dead at her feet.

The seconds stretched longer, and the chancellor continued to say nothing. Slowly, Valis extracted a cigarette from her uniform’s breast pocket. Cradling it between her lips and striking a lighter at its other end, she inhaled deeply, then blew a plume of smoke in the hologram’s direction. She was not about to be the one to talk first. She wouldn’t have to be. 

When almost half a minute had passed, Palpatine finally opened his mouth.

_ “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” _

Valis bit down on her tongue, feeling the cool satisfaction of having wrongfooted the most powerful man in the galaxy slip for just a moment.  _ Bastard _ .

There were any number of things he could have said to her.  _ How are you alive?  _ would have sufficed, or perhaps a simple  _ Damn you _ . But no—his question had almost been that of a disappointed father. As though he were bloody unimpressed. 

“Excuse me?” she asked, her own voice perfectly calm, exhaling smoke in the hologram’s direction. 

_ “Perhaps your reputation as a tactician is undeserved, Admiral. Revealing yourself to me is meant to accomplish—what, exactly? Destroy my morale?”  _

“Believe it or not,” Valis replied, taking a step closer to the holographic face, “no. I’m here to discuss ending your war.”

Palpatine scoffed. A smile had begun to form on his face, one that was both parts bemused and superior.  _ “Admiral, much as I hate to disappoint you, simply finding out that news of your death was mistaken does not exactly make me shake in my boots. Nor does the fact that you seem to have handily disposed of my enemies’ chief leaders. And— _ my _ war? I think you’re forgetting who started all of this.” _

“Of course, my mistake,” she replied, letting the cigarette dangle from her lips as she took another stride forward. Only two feet now stood between her and a man who was so close that a childish part of her felt the urge to reach out and touch his image. “It was Bail Organa’s administration that officially declared war on the Confederacy, and I was the one who attacked Had Abbadon.”

Plucking the cigarette from her mouth, she jabbed it in the Chancellor’s direction. “But it was  _ you  _ who made sure it all happened that way . . . Lord Sidious.” 

She watched him closely for any hint of a reaction. Perhaps sweat would start to form on his brow, or his eyes would flit to the side like a sabacc player with an obvious tell. 

None of that happened. But his face, for the briefest of moments, went white.

_ There we are. _

“That’s right,” Valis continued. “Maul told me everything.” 

To Palpatine’s credit, only a few moments of silence passed before he spoke again.  _ “Very well, he told you everything. And this means you’ve contacted me—why, precisely?” _

Valis felt her lip curl upward in a sneer. “Why, Chancellor, what on earth are you talking about.”

Palpatine, through his suddenly rigid posture, did his best to approximate a shrug. _ “If what Maul tells you is true, then it seems to me we are all on the same side. Republic, Confederacy—labels, nothing more. In fact, I am technically your superior. So I ask again, you have captured me—why?” _

“Ahh, I see,” Valis replied. Taking a lengthy pull on her cigarette, she let her posture loosen, blowing smoke to one side. “You’re the man in charge, no matter how I slice it. So really, we both want the same things. Is that it?”

_ “Precisely.” _

Valis leaned forward til her face was as close to the Chancellor’s as it was able to get without her stumbling forward. With a single, deliberate movement, she plucked the cigarette from her mouth and flicked it to the deck. “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it. We  _ don’t _ want the same things.”

Palpatine said nothing; he merely held her gaze, waiting. When she reached out to probe his emotions—it was worth a try, she thought, through the holographic connection—it was like running her fingers over a glass sphere. There was something tangible there, but anything she tried to grasp simply  _ slid _ .

_ “Very well, then,” _ he eventually said. Despite his audible effort to keep his voice as inscrutable as his presence in the Force, Valis was amused by what she heard—the primary emotion he was suppressing, besides fear, was  _ irritation _ .  _ “What is it you  _ do  _ want?” _

In all her years of service to the Confederacy, Valis could not recall a time she’d ever been asked that question. At first, it had all been what Maul wanted; then, what was demanded by the Board his master had erected to control him. And then, in her last two years of hiding, it had been about everything that would lead to this moment—to Maul’s master before her, answering to her. What she wanted for  _ afterward— _ when all the blood was over with, the war won at last—had never been a topic of conversation.

And so, she told him.

“Let me speculate,” she said, grinding her cigarette into the floor with her heel. “If things were to go according to your plan, one of two things would happen. One, the Confederacy would win, and the Executive Board would set up shop on Coruscant with you pulling the strings from above. Or two—far more likely—the Confederacy was never  _ supposed _ to win, the Republic conquers us, and you continue to rule with all the wonderful new wartime powers you were afforded and just never got around to giving up. Either way, a few rich assholes on one side get what’s coming to them and the majority of the underclasses are worse off, while the rest of the rich assholes go about their lives largely unchanged. We’ll assume,” she said, nodding graciously, “that you are about to tell me that should the Confederacy win, I’d be part of the Executive Board once again, and should the Republic win, I’d be offered clemency. We both know you don’t mean either, so I’ll save you the trouble.

“Now, in a way, your manner of thinking gets close to the reason I’m here. You view the Republic and the Confederacy as functionally indistinguishable, because you rule both. Whoever wins, you come out on top. I agree with you—the way you’ve set things up, either one is as good as the other. Which is why both have to go.”

Palpatine again said nothing—but his face slipped, for the barest instant. Valis watched it curdle into something suddenly raw and pure and clean—sincere, seething hatred for her in particular. She knew, in that moment, that he’d been hiding it ever since he realized she was alive.

She’d gotten used to it on Maul’s face. Seeing it on his master’s was faintly unsettling.

And then it passed, and Palpatine was simply Palpatine again—still, saying nothing, waiting for her to continue.

She flicked a glance down at the corpse nearest her—Ruala Yi, her long neck bringing her head close enough to brush against Valis’s boot. As she fought the urge to recoil at the sight, images of the past two years threatened to burst through the wall she’d built around them in her mind. Of the cavern on Korriban, of the defeated Jedi Maul had brought to her—those who had fallen by her hand in battle, and those who had refused to fight but had died nonetheless. 

Valis gritted her teeth and shoved aside the memories. Now was not the time to deal with them. “In a way, I can’t even despise you. You’re just a symptom. The culmination of a problem that has plagued this galaxy for centuries. It all needs to come down, Chancellor. Both sides of the coin. The Republic. The Confederacy. And from the ashes of your world, we’ll build a better one. One where independent planets are left alone. Where Core elites get what they deserve. And where you, your Executive Board, your Senate aren’t given the chance to meddle with anyone’s lives ever again.”

At this, Palpatine gave a bizarre bark of what Valis realized after a moment was laughter. The sound didn’t suit him—it was harsh and choked, as though he were out of practice.  _ “And what does Warlord Maul have to say about this? He is, after all, a member of the Executive Board. Or rather what is left of it.” _

Before she could stop herself, Valis was laughing in return—a low, throaty chuckle that she felt bubble up from inside her and spill outward. “Funny you should mention that.”

* * *

At these words, Maul emerges from the shadows.

The Zabrak does not speak—he simply stares, his amber eyes locked on the man who raised him. Who told him he was made for something better.

Who lied to him, in every conversation, from the moment they met.

Maul does his best to make his gaze burn.

Sidious, for his part, looks as though he’s trying to do the same. The rage that crawls across his face when he meets the warlord’s gaze is something Maul has never seen before—never in the past would his master have given his apprentice the satisfaction of revealing he’d made him angry. The Zabrak sneers, hoping it will go further—that Sidious will rage, scream, impotent.

Instead, his master merely clenches his fists, releases them, and looks at Valis, as if understanding for the first time.  _ “Ah,” _ he says to Maul without meeting his eyes.  _ “You’ve found yourself an apprentice.” _

“A partner,” Valis corrects, before Maul can speak. “The Sith treating their students as inferiors is what led you to . . . well, this.”

Maul feels a rush of irritation dilute his triumph—but before he can do more than send half an angry glance Valis’s way, Sidious snorts.  _ “You’d have me treat a rabid dog as an equal? There’s no need for me to tell you where that will lead  _ you _.” _

“Let’s discuss that,” Valis replies, turning and nodding to the warlord. “I’ve spoken quite enough for now. Maul, where  _ is _ this leading us?”

He takes a moment to dismiss his anger at her—bickering with her over the semantics of their titles is pointless, especially now. Instead, he turns his focus back to the man in front of him. As the Zabrak speaks, he feels any emotion he has for Valis fall away—the dark side replaces it with a tingling energy that flows through him, engulfing him. It’s as though he has become crystalline, pure, purged of any feeling but savage joy.

“Once we take you and your Congress is ground to dust, you will, as Chancellor, sign a declaration of unconditional surrender to the Confederacy—our Confederacy, not your puppets. And then I will kill you.”

This is not a threat, or even a promise. It is simply an inevitability.

Sidious smiles, but the smile is hard. It’s an expression Maul has seen countless times.  _ “And what incentive is there for me to turn this Republic, which has stood for a thousand generations, over to you, when doing so will mean my death?” _

“You’ll do it,” Maul rasps, his words again not threat but certainty. “Because up to the moment I take your head, you’ll be telling yourself you can plan a way out of it.”

At this, for the first time, Sidious gives a genuine laugh.

His previous outbursts of disdain to Valis were just that and nothing more, but in the chuckle that rolls forth from his throat this time is genuine mirth. Not the bleak, almost good-natured mirth of someone realizing the depths of his hopeless situation, though. It is directed not at himself at all, but at the two of them. Valis keeps her face carefully neutral, but Maul can sense her flinch inside, for just an instant.

_ “You assume I need a plan,” _ Sidious hisses, once the laughter has died away, staring at Maul with barely suppressed disdain.  _ “I can forgive  _ Darth  _ Valis her ignorance,” _ he says, the syllables of her name thick with contemptuous amusement,  _ “but you, Lord Maul . . . I expected better. _

_ “No matter how you plan to kill me, you will fail. You could tell the Republic what I truly am, but you won’t. You fools need a legitimate surrender—and for that, Darth Sidious, architect of the Clone Wars, agent of the Sith, won’t do. You need Palpatine, beloved Chancellor of the Republic, reputation untarnished. You won’t be able to persuade my defenders when you come for me—you will only be able to fight them. And you will lose.” _

Those words, addressed to Valis, are cold and hard as iron. But then Sidious shifts his attention to Maul, and his tone changes. It drips with malice—with  _ enjoyment _ of that malice.  _ “You should not have come, Maul. Your apprentice cannot hope to match me. And when my  _ new  _ apprentice is revealed, nothing will save you.” _

Maul’s lips pull back from his teeth in a rictus. “I look forward to carving that lying tongue from your mouth.”

He means it more than anything else he’s said in his life.

And before his master can reply—insert one last taunt, one last portent of failure—the warlord twists his wrist, and ceases transmission.

* * *

Standing on the bridge of the  _ Charybdis _ , Valis took one last look at the warship’s crew. A few were familiar faces—officers loyal to her, who’d only been too eager to welcome her back and dispose of her replacement. Some were clones, assigned to technical positions and given no details of any kind as to what had happened down below on the Restricted Deck—as far as these units were concerned, Maul was still a member of the Executive Board, his restoration of Valis to her position on the bridge a legitimate command. And some Valis had only met when she stepped back aboard the ship, handpicked by Maul to fill out any stations that were empty.

A patchwork, then, as was the rest of their fleet. As was this whole endeavor.

As were she and Maul themselves.

Beside her, the Zabrak was silent, but she could sense his impatience—they’d already given Palpatine warning with their conversation, and if they were to hold onto the element of surprise they’d have to move now. But he said nothing, simply watched and waited for her to give the word. She knew her assertion of their equal partnership to his master had irked him—she’d seen it in the brief glance he’d shot her way, eyes blazing. But he’d not denied it.

_ Respect _ was perhaps too good a word for it. But they recognized each other’s worth.  _ And to think,  _ Valis thought,  _ it only took a little treason to get there. _

She looked outward at the vast blackness of space beyond the viewport—at the specks that were the stars. Inhaled. And then, breathing out, she spoke a single word.

“Engage.”

Stars became starlines. The  _ Charybdis _ launched itself into the swirling netherworld of hyperspace.

And then, a few seconds later, it emerged.

At the other end of the microjump’s tunnel was a world that shone in a rainbow of neon light—a sun in its own right, piercing through the ebony darkness around it. The illumination came not from one point but from millions—each artificial light source embedded in the skyscrapers and airspeeders and streets that crisscrossed the planet.

Coruscant, in all her glory.

The  _ Charybdis _ shuddered as realspace reversions bloomed around her—Confederate and pirate vessels alike falling into formation. In the distance, Coruscant’s gateway moon loomed like a lone sentry—it could see all of them, Valis knew, and would take only a few moments to shake off its initial shock and send defense vessels screaming her way.

Good.

Turning to Maul, she thought,  _ Well, here it is. My battle. _

_ Win it,  _ he shot back.

For once, an order she was happy to comply with.

As Coruscant loomed ever larger in the viewport, Darth Valis—Lady of the Sith, Admiral of the Confederacy—raised her voice to command. “Attack formations!”


	2. In the Aftermath (Part I: Among Ruins)

**PART I**

**Among Ruins**

Capitol Plaza, “the center of Coruscant,” had earned the name through not only its importance but its design—it was perfectly symmetrical, the Senate dome ringed by an artificially constructed disc of duracrete whose entrances and exits were all precisely parallel to one another. Whether or not it was actually the planet’s geographic center, looking at it from above, one got the sensation that everything about Coruscant started here and then grew outward.

Now, that symmetry was gone. A ragged furrow had split the plaza, the once-uniform dome pierced by a weapon that was still embedded in its walls—the  _ Charybdis,  _ launched at the Senate like an ion-propelled spear.

Anakin Skywalker stared at the husk of the warship, watching as construction droids carved chunks of the ship off with plasma torches and hauled them away to some undisclosed location. Some pieces, he assumed, would be studied for intelligence purposes. A useless endeavor—the CIS had crashed the ship on purpose. Valis wasn’t stupid, she wouldn’t have left anything important behind. Most of the rest was being melted down for scrap—which was what they should do with all of it, Anakin thought. Forge it into blasters and battle armor and bombs. Spit it right back at her when they tracked her to wherever she was hiding now.

He sighed, pressing harder against the window’s transparisteel with the length of his mechanical forearm. The pane creaked slightly under the pressure—ignoring the noise, Anakin lazily traced along the window with his other hand, following the scar that had been carved into Capitol Plaza as the  _ Charybdis _ slid along its surface. 

Part of him wished he’d been there to see it. It was the second deorbiting of a capital ship he’d only heard of secondhand—though at least this time he knew people who’d been able to watch from outside. There had been no witnesses to the first one, save for the man who’d been on the vessel’s bridge . . . 

He forced the thought out of his mind. Another part of him, a much larger part, was beyond thankful he  _ hadn’t  _ been in Capitol Plaza when the  _ Charybdis  _ had deorbited. It was all too easy to imagine the sounds of it—the horrendous shriek of warship hull against metal and concrete, the roar of fires stoked by interstellar fuel. 

The screams of innocents mowed down by the ever-advancing cruiser-turned-projectile. That one, he thought with a shudder, was far too easy to imagine _._

He rubbed his sweaty palm against his tunic and swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat, all the while trying not to hear the phantom sounds in his head. The servomotors in his arm whirred as he shoved away from the window—at the same moment, a pair of patrol starfighters streaked by. Their hulls were adorned with two parallel red stripes.

At the sight of them, Anakin felt a quiet burst of relief, the phantom screams growing fainter. Those ships and the people who flew them had been one of the few good things to come out of this whole debacle. Finally, the groundside security of Coruscant was becoming a priority for the Republic. 

“Impressive, aren’t they?” 

Anakin inhaled sharply, then forced himself to relax as he turned and saw the source of the new voice. “Chancellor! I’m sorry.” 

“What ever for, my boy?” Palpatine asked, a warm smile crossing his face. An arm draped in regal cloth stretched out toward Anakin as the chancellor rested his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t intend to sneak up on you.” 

After everything—after weeks of watching the people he had been elected to protect fall to Confederate attacks—Palpatine was still the quiet strength, still the understanding father. Anakin felt his stomach drop with sudden, overpowering guilt at his own weakness.

Shrugging, he said, “It’s all right. I was just . . .” He trailed off, turning to face out the window once again, his eyes drawn to the wound carved in the street dozens of stories below. 

The belated realization of where they were standing hit him. Spinning to face the chancellor again, he moved his own hand up to Palpatine’s shoulder. “Sir, you shouldn’t be so close to the window!” 

As Anakin’s metal palm made contact with the puffed shoulders of Palpatine’s robes, a wave of heat flashed across his mind. His eyes squeezed shut, but he could still see the burst of green light. He could feel the spray of transparisteel shards bursting into his living room, slashing tiny cuts across his cheeks and arms. He could practically see her mechanical form on the other side of the window; there one instant, gone the next—

Palpatine’s voice cut through the images and sensations. “It’s all right, son, you needn’t worry. The Coruscant Guard has locked the whole neighborhood down. No clones, no pirates.” 

In spite of those words, Anakin noticed that the two of them had still moved away from the window.

He knew he should be more relaxed. Everyone needed to hold onto resolve now, to keep morale up. But his mind kept returning to the idea:  _ What if he’d been there when the ship came down. What if he’d been in one of the buildings it crashed into. What if what if what if— _

Exhaling, he dropped his hand from Palpatine’s shoulder and turned to face the room they stood in. Officers of the Coruscant Guard, some in field uniforms and others in plastoid armor—all of which sported distinct red accents—milled about between computer terminals and tactical holotables. 

This was one of many field operations centers hastily constructed in the wake of the first terrorist attacks on Coruscant all those weeks ago. Even now, power cables and networking wires were strung haphazardly between terminals, some bolted to the ceiling and others taped to the floor in an effort to prevent anyone from tripping on them. The holotables marked off the districts surrounding the Senate Building in a grid pattern—though the capitol itself was blue, most surrounding squares were varying shades of red. The ones farthest from the Senate Building were the darkest shade. 

“I must say, I was surprised to find you here at such an hour. You’re up early.” 

_ Up late, actually _ , was the thought that crossed Anakin’s mind—though he didn’t dare say it. He hadn’t gone home at all last night; long after every member of the Coruscant Guard had left the field ops center, he’d been working. 

He’d poked and prodded at the holotables, allocating droids and cleanup crews and resources to various neighborhoods as though the streets of Coruscant were the map of some strategy game, the sort he’d seen the spacers on Junkfort Station play in their downtime. He’d hoped there was some perfect solution he wasn’t seeing, a way to move everyone around  _ just so  _ to turn every block in the district the same blue as the capitol building. In the time it had taken the sun to set and rise again, he still hadn’t found it. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d make myself useful,” was all he said aloud.

Palpatine smiled and patted him on the back. “I admire your work ethic. You’ve done a marvelous job of coordinating this cleanup effort, Anakin.” 

_ Cleanup effort.  _ When he’d said the words to Padmé, told her he was assisting with the operation, he had hoped she would assume the best—that he was helping coordinate the movements of Palpatine’s new Coruscant Guard and assisting in removing debris from the streets. He suspected she knew the reality: “cleanup” often involved neutralizing the threat of remaining clone forces and the pirates that accompanied them, followed by corpse disposal. 

“It’s not over yet,” the young man said, pointing to one of the outlying neighborhoods on the holomap. 

Palpatine nodded slowly, a slight frown tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Indeed, there is still much to be done. It worries me deeply that we haven’t the faintest idea how many of the Confederacy’s forces still remain in the lower levels.” At this, he looked Anakin directly in the eye, his expression shifting from solemnity to resolve. “But that is why I am grateful for the Coruscant Guard. That is why I am grateful for  _ you _ . We will stay the course and ensure Coruscant’s safety.”

Turning to face the center of the room, he strolled away from Anakin—his floor-length robes gave him the appearance of gliding over the tile.

As Palpatine drifted away, Anakin’s mind wandered, carried by the tides of fatigue that had plagued him since the sun had crested over the capital city’s western horizon. The chancellor’s fading presence was like an anchor coming untethered from a seabed—the attacks he’d witnessed over the weeks flashed across his vision even as the outside world faded out of focus. A bomb detonated in a bank, a frigate plowed into a luxury residential tower, an art gallery burned to the ground—

“Skywalker!” 

The sound of his name, along with the sudden sensation of falling toward the floor, yanked Anakin back into a state of alertness. As he stumbled toward the floor, the plastoid-clad arms of a Coruscant Guard trooper snapped outward to catch him. 

His heart rate spiked from the sudden rush of being jolted awake, but the feeling of his face flushing red was far more prominent. The armored trooper who’d caught him offered a nod of the head, while the uniformed officers around him pretended not to notice what had just happened. 

Worst of all, Palpatine had seemingly turned around in time to witness the whole thing. 

“Anakin,” he began, practically whispering the name, “you haven’t been here all night, have you?” 

_ You should have known better,  _ Anakin scolded himself. There was no getting anything past the chancellor. Face still burning, he shrugged, said nothing, and bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to keep himself awake. 

Genuine concern rather than consternation furrowed the older man’s face. “Come here, my boy.” As the chancellor drew closer, everyone else in the room seemed to fade out of focus.

“I appreciate you, Anakin, I really do.” It was just the two of them now, executive and right hand man. “But you  _ must  _ take care of yourself. We can’t do this if we aren’t in the proper condition for it.”

Palpatine frowned and glanced at the floor, then leaned forward a hair, as though he didn’t want to risk anyone else overhearing. “These attacks have torn too many families apart. I don’t want your family to be among them. Go home to your wife. Get some rest.” 

Anakin fought to keep from wincing. Not that Palpatine didn’t know it— _ not that he  _ should  _ know _ —but  _ home _ was not exactly a place for him to get some rest these days. Not since the attack. His tired mind raced in an effort to come up with some excuse for staying and working longer that wouldn’t sound too pathetic. 

He never got the chance. “Come, my boy,” Palpatine began, “we’ll send you home in a private airspeeder—” 

“No!” Anakin interrupted. An awkward silence filled the air before he repeated himself in a softer tone. “No, I’ll take the train.” 

_ Why?  _ he knew, would be the follow-up question. The truth—that Palpatine’s airspeeder drivers, once given a destination, would sooner die than deviate from it—wouldn’t do. 

“It’ll be good optics,” Anakin said before Palpatine had a chance to ask for an explanation. His mouth moved almost automatically, as if he were working a mark in a seedy Outer Rim bar rather than standing before the Chancellor of the Republic. “A member of your staff using public transit will help restore faith in the safety of the train network. It communicates confidence—we know Coruscant is safe, and this is how we show the people.”

For several seconds, Palpatine said nothing, and Anakin’s chest began to tighten.

Then the chancellor broke into a wide grin. “Excellent thinking, Anakin!”

He reached a hand out and patted the younger man on the side of the shoulder. “Though perhaps you’ve been spending too much time around politicians. You’re beginning to sound like Coruscant’s next senator. I think taking the train home is a wonderful idea. Stay safe, son.” 

At this, Anakin let out a slow exhalation. “Thank you, sir,” he muttered, somewhat stumbling over the words.

As he backed away from Palpatine and turned toward the operations center’s turbolift bay, a sickening tension formed in the pit of his stomach. 

He wanted to believe that the chancellor would understand. He wanted to sit him down and spell out, in great detail, why he had stayed out working all night. Though now, of course, was not the time. Not in front of the Coruscant Guard. 

More than anything, though, he wanted to believe that Palpatine would understand why Anakin had just had to lie to him.

* * *

The train’s silence hung over Anakin like a pall. In the days following the first Confederate attacks on Coruscant, the planet’s network of public transportation had become eerily deserted, mostly out of fear that a train car or an airspeeder depot would become the next target. The worry, it turned out, had been mostly unfounded—the public transit infrastructure had never been directly attacked by the Confederacy. Of course, that hadn’t left it immune to accidents and collateral damage, which had been plentiful over the past several weeks. Deliberate or not, the damage to the transport network had only stoked the public’s fears.

And so, despite the fact it should have been morning rush hour, there were more than a few handfuls of empty seats on the train car, a rarity in Anakin’s usual experience. Passengers did not smile at one another, did not pause to chat as they boarded and departed. There was only the faint rumble of the train against the gravtrack below, and the hiss of the air circulation system keeping the car cool

Nor was that the silence that bothered Anakin the most. 

For nearly his entire life, even a half-full and silent train car would have been alive with the noise of the Force—thoughts and emotions, memories and feelings, all swirling about and emanating from each passenger around him. Even before he’d known to consciously pick up on individual threads of inner noise, they’d been there guiding him.

That was gone now. It had been for two years.

Most days he could ignore the emptiness around him. The densely populated streets of Coruscant, the packed social functions and political gatherings he had to attend alongside Palpatine—all of it was busy enough and noisy enough to drown out the silence in his mind. As long as things were loud, were busy, he could tell himself he didn’t miss it, or better yet, realize after a few hours that he hadn’t been thinking about it at all.

It was half-empty train cars—and quiet apartments—that brought the deafening silence back into the foreground. And in the aftermath of the siege, that emptiness had only grown bigger.

So, when the train came to a stop and a droid’s voice announced they had arrived at Coruscant Central Station, Anakin was the first one out of his seat and through the door. 

He’d been in countless train stations throughout his life, from the rust-coated tram depots of Junkfort to the smooth and polished transit hub on Oseon, more art installation than functional travel port. Somehow, there was still something special about Coruscant Central Station—entering it always felt like stepping back in time. The structures surrounding the station were typical Coruscant buildings: skyscrapers with smooth exteriors that reflected sunlight and their neighboring buildings back into the world, spires of glass gently growing toward the heavens. Central Station felt like a piece of history, a relic of a bygone era—stonework arches framed the doorways, exposed beams crisscrossed in the vaulted ceiling up above. Intricate glasswork set in every window frame allowed natural light to fill the platform hall. 

The station was, to Anakin’s relief, a fair bit noisier than his train car had been—this made it easier to ignore the nagging hollowness of the people milling about. Conversations and loudspeaker announcements about this train departing or that train getting delayed echoed throughout the artificial cavern.

As Anakin glanced upward, he was greeted by a disturbingly familiar sight staring back down at him. The holographic image, hanging in the air beside the sign displaying the train schedules, was a face he’d not seen since Serenno. 

_ WANTED,  _ the Aurebesh text below the floating face of Admiral Sephone Valis proclaimed,  _ FOR CRIMES AGAINST THE REPUBLIC.  _

The face changed, though the text did not. Another human all too familiar to Anakin. He’d killed that face more than once. Had Abbadon. The Lancer Station. The Aurebesh beneath the face faded to reveal another sentence. 

_ REPORT ALL CLONE SIGHTINGS TO CORUSCANT GUARD OFFICERS IMMEDIATELY.  _

Anakin gritted his teeth at the thought of it. Clone sightings on Coruscant. Valis had made her statement, crashed her ship into the Senate Building, and fled the system—or, depending on who you asked, had orchestrated the whole thing from afar and never even come to Coruscant. And yet the people still lived in fear. It was impossible to track every individual on the galactic capital world. Tracking down multiple copies of the same person was only slightly easier. 

An Ithorian’s rumbling shout brought Anakin back to the present. The ambling alien waved at him frantically, spouting a string of words Anakin barely understood, save for one:  _ move _ . Too late, he realized he’d stopped still in the middle of the platform and was now decidedly in everyone’s way—muttering a shameful “sorry,” he stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked briskly to the end of the train platform. 

Arriving at the central hub of the train station brought an entirely different sight into view. The backdrop of history was still woven across the train station’s heart—a massive circular room with arms jutting off it like spokes of an ancient cart wheel. That backdrop, though, was now coated with ash—and numerous harsh reminders of the hell Coruscant had just been through. 

A hulking signboard sat planted in the center of the room—an old split-flap display rather than a modern holoprojector, original to the train station. It offered the first reminder that things on Coruscant had yet to return to normal—more trains were listed as “Delayed” or “Canceled” than “On Time.” Just beyond the signboard, sunlight streamed in from a still-fresh hole in the roof, shining like a spotlight on the wreckage of an ARC-170 heavy starfighter. 

Plastoid-clad officers of the Coruscant Guard wandered the concourse in pairs, blaster rifles slung over their shoulders or clasped in both hands. Though most travelers seemed to give the armored men a wide berth, Anakin relaxed as he moved closer to them. As his eyes met the reflective black visor of one officer’s helmet, the trooper lowered his head in a slight nod. The officer may have spoken his name—a muffled sound escaped the helmet vocabulator, one Anakin failed to make out as his gaze drifted beyond the helmet and into the distance. 

The wrecked heavy starfighter changed shape as he stared at it, morphing and shifting into one of the craggy spheroids that had seemed to fall from the sky of Had Abbadon. He felt the heat of the turbolaser blasts ripping into the planet’s crust, the sound of rock vaporizing or melting into globs of molten goo that burned his clothing. He remembered grabbing Padmé’s hand in his own—his flesh right hand, back when the hellfire that had befallen Had Abbadon’s surface hadn’t yet taken it from him. A searing pain shot up what remained of his right arm, and when the vision of Had Abbadon’s crumbling surface faded, Anakin was standing alone next to the wreckage of the fighter. 

The crowd in the grand concourse had thinned out considerably—a glance at a nearby clock revealed the standard workday had begun. An announcement sounded over the station loudspeakers to signal the departure of another train; Anakin could just make out the rhythm of hurried footfalls echoing against the stone floor of the station. 

Turning away from the crashed ARC-170, he stared up at the schedule signboard and weighed his options. There was one leaving for his neighborhood soon, and there were always trains headed back to where he worked. The entertainment district—what was left of it, anyway—had an occasional departing train, and there was even one headed for a historical district he’d spent plenty of time in in years past. 

None of those options felt right. He turned on a heel and strolled away from the grand concourse, wandering in whichever direction had the fewest people. 

His meandering brought him to a roped-off archway, the entrance to a wing of the train station still under construction. Glancing sideways to make sure no one was looking, he ducked underneath the barrier and continued into the unfinished wing. 

Though it was a new addition to the train station, the added terminal was faithful to the original style and built from many of the same materials. Unopened food stands and shops with empty shelves were set into the walls, their signage dim and interiors unlit. 

Plastic tarps hung from the hall’s windows, which had yet to be filled in with the same glasswork pieces as the rest of the train station—as a breeze from the outside pushed the tarps aside, shafts of natural light sliced their way into the hall. Anakin squinted against them as his eyes adjusted to the ebb and flow of illumination. Then, in the distance, something glinted in the light.

A droid.

Memories rushed at him—the sensation of hot air and shards of glass blasting inward at his face, the green fireball slamming into the outdoor patio and leaving nothing in its wake. The sound—perhaps real, perhaps imagined—of a homemade droid shrieking as she fell hundreds of stories to the streets below their apartment. 

The droid in the distance turned away from him, shuffling deeper into the construction site. He followed hastily, ducking beneath scaffolding and striding over sections of unfinished flooring. He wanted to call out after it, to stop it from moving away—but he couldn’t find the words. Only a name, one he couldn’t bring himself to say. It didn’t belong to this droid, he was all but certain of it. 

Still a sliver of hope remained, stoked by a backward glance from the robot as it stopped and looked in his direction. The droid’s eyes, for just a moment, seemed to flash red—

“Excuse me, sir!” it spoke, and any notion of this droid being Anakin’s shattered. The voice was too shrill, tuned to a note of forced politeness often found in mass-manufactured units. 

“What’re you doing back here?” Anakin snapped at the machine between deep breaths, exhaustion brought on by a mix of his run down the hall and a rush of confused grief. 

_ I could ask you the same thing,  _ he heard in his head, the tones of Liz’s gruffer voice echoing in his memory. It’s what she would have retorted with, if this had been her. 

Instead the droid blabbered some excuse about reporting to its post within the construction site—despite not being surprised, Anakin’s heart still managed to sink within his chest. Scoffing at the droid and giving it a dismissive wave, he pushed past it and shuffled deeper into the terminal. 

He had expected his journey to take him further into darkness, and was surprised as a hint of illumination appeared at the end of the hall. Daylight streamed in through a gaping hole in the corridor, as though someone had taken the end of the hallway and sawed it off. 

The opposite was true, of course—the corridor’s terminus had yet to be constructed. Despite their appearances, most train stations and tunnels on Coruscant were not underground like the subways found on other worlds. “Underground” had little meaning on Coruscant, the actual surface having long since been obscured by the ever-advancing upward movement of construction and expansion. 

Instead the train tracks ran through sealed metal tubes, built onto the sides of skyscrapers and woven through the air in places where they would be safe from speeder traffic. Only rarely did they dip below what passed for street level. So, when Anakin approached the edge of the construction site and stared through the opening, he was greeted with the sight of a midmorning Capitol District. 

Speeders whizzed from one end of the city to the other. The Senate dome sat cradled amidst the taller spires of the buildings surrounding it, still smoldering from the attack, the  _ Charybdis’  _ hull jutting from its walls—from this distance, it looked like a model sculpture one might someday find in a museum about the war. Despite the noise—the rush of wind, the buzz of arispeeders zipping by, the scrapes and shrieks of construction droids cleaning up the aftermath of the attack—it was the silence and emptiness behind Anakin that burrowed their way deeper into his head. 

Glancing down at his feet, he sighed and kicked a pebble of construction material out into the urban abyss. 

* * *

Eventually he found himself back in the mercifully noisy grand concourse of Coruscant Central Station. Hours had passed; the sun now hung directly overhead, projecting its rays straight down through the roof into the center of the rotunda. The morning’s spare population had expanded somewhat—crowds of midday commuters crisscrossed the station, bound for the various departure terminals or the ticket machines lining every wall. 

Two things had driven him from his aimless journey through the empty halls of the construction site. The first was the hiss of silence scratching at the back of his skull, the tinnitus that underscored his moments of isolation. As precious as time alone was, it had started to become unbearable. 

The second reason was much simpler—his commlink had buzzed the telltale pulse of an incoming message. He couldn’t have watched it back in the empty halls—it was a video message, one his handheld comm was incapable of displaying on its own. For that he’d need a comm booth—and though the unfinished train terminal had them in spades, all of them sat dormant and unpowered. 

Sliding into the queue that had formed by the comm booths, Anakin fiddled with his commlink and rolled it between mechanical fingers. The device, one he’d built by hand and used for years, was little more than a microphone, some buttons, and a couple of lights, all strung together by a bundle of wires and housed in a casing built from spare ship parts. Even after he’d been inducted into the chancellor’s staff, he’d insisted on keeping the thing, only allowing the Senate technicians to swap the antenna inside for a more secure model. There was something about the way the old thing felt between his fingers that he couldn’t let go of. 

As he stepped into the comm booth, slipping past the Quarren who had just finished using it, Anakin jacked the commlink into the terminal and slid the door shut behind him, leaving barely enough room to move. A small projector situated just below eye level was designed to create miniature holoprojections of incoming messages. He braced himself for whatever was about to appear—he hadn’t been expecting anyone to call. 

The face that materialized before him made his chest tighten. 

_ “Hey,”  _ the hologram of Padmé Amidala began—the miniature projection of Anakin’s wife shook her head, crossed her arms, and glanced at the floor.  _ “Long day at work, huh? Look, I get it. Gods know you’re not the only one who’s busy, but if you’re not going to come home at night, just . . .”  _ She trailed off for a moment, then looked up.  _ “Just call me first so I don’t have to wonder whether or not you’re alive. I know I might not act like it all the time, but I miss you. Us. Maybe I’ll see you tonight.” _

Anakin stared on as the image of his wife faded away. His stomach was sinking lower than he thought possible, and though he hadn’t eaten in hours he thought he might be sick. 

Then, without warning, the next message saved on his commlink began to play automatically. A bearded man in robes appeared, his words flowing in a refined Core accent. 

_ “Hello, Anakin. I’m probably the last person you expected to hear from—” _

“Dammit,” Anakin whispered, yanking the commlink free from the projector—the blue-tinged hologram of Obi-Wan fizzled out of existence. He cursed under his breath and rushed out of the booth, nearly knocking over the man who was waiting to use it next. 

He shrugged off the man’s annoyed shouting—it wasn’t in Basic, easy to ignore—and hastily shuffled away from the cluster of comm booths. Despite the fact he’d pulled the plug on Obi-Wan’s message, he couldn’t help but hear the rest of it in his head. When his old teacher had sent it days prior, the younger man had watched it over and over again in numb shock. The gall of it, to disappear for two years and then just . . . reach out. 

A half sneer, half frown played across his face for a moment, and then he paused to consider the message from his former friend. Anakin had been asked to leave work, and there was no point in taking the next train home—Padmé wouldn’t be there, not at this time of day, and he wasn’t about to spend time in the apartment alone.

And he’d give Obi-Wan this—it  _ would _ be good to see him. Past the hurt, and the exhaustion, and the gnawing absence that seeing his old friend would only bring flooding to the foreground . . . he really did miss him.

His mind again flitted to the fallen veranda just outside his apartment, to the droid-shaped absence that filled the place now.  _ You don’t know how long you have to spend with anyone, really. _

Maybe it was meant to be. Maybe it was time to take Obi-Wan up on his—

_ “Fellow citizens of the Republic . . .”  _

The unmistakable voice of Chancellor Palpatine echoed throughout the grand concourse. Up above, a holosign that had once displayed the faces of wanted clones and pirates now broadcast a message from the Republic’s leader. 

It was a recording, of course—one Anakin had been present for. He gazed up at the projected visage, remembering himself standing just beside Palpatine, barely out of the holocam’s range, as the chancellor had recorded a series of public announcements in the wake of the attacks on Coruscant. 

_ “Know that your safety is of utmost importance,”  _ the recording continued—as Anakin stood and stared up at it, commuters milled about around him, a scattered head here or there glancing upward at the screen.  _ “Our home has been attacked, and though the attackers have been driven back, I will not hide the truth: some of their agents yet remain here on Coruscant.”  _ The projection of Palpatine paused, closed his eyes, and shook his head.  _ “It saddens me greatly to think that you may feel threatened as you move about our great planet. That is why I have deployed the Coruscant Guard—but they alone cannot fight this threat. Public safety and security is everyone’s responsibility. If you see something, say something. Thank you for your support of the Galactic Republic.”  _

Palpatine’s image faded away, replaced briefly by the emblem of the Coruscant Guard. A few seconds later, the holographic wanted poster of a clone had returned. 

A mechanical squeal emerged from Anakin’s right hand, and he unclenched a fist he hadn’t realized he’d been making. His eyes darted across the concourse, bouncing from one commuter to the next as they went about their afternoon. Most seemed blissfully unaware of what had just played over the station loudspeakers. 

If he did his job right, perhaps that was a luxury they could continue to afford.

He’d stayed up all night because there was work to be done—and that hadn’t changed just because he’d been dismissed for the day. Sleep or no sleep, the threat to Coruscant had not been neutralized. 

Moving in the direction from whence he’d entered the grand concourse, Anakin eventually broke into a jog toward the platform he’d arrived on. The train back to the Capitol Plaza was departing soon, and he was going to be on it. 

He could sleep on the ride there.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: EXECUTIVE ORDER 1156-83** _

Executive Order 1156-83 is the 83rd executive order issued in the fourth full year of Palpatine of Naboo’s term as Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. The order lays forth a plan to establish the Coruscant Guard—a federal police force reporting to the Office of the Supreme Chancellor and patrolling the entirety of Coruscant, its airspace, and its orbital space. 

The executive order is part of Chancellor Palpatine’s “Unified Coruscant” initiative, which consolidates administrative functions across the Republic capital, eliminating redundancy between the planetary-level government and the executive office of the Republic. 

Critics of the order, and of the entirety of the Unified Coruscant initiative, accuse Palpatine of erasing Coruscant’s status as an independent world and turning it into nothing more than an arm of the Republic government. The initiative's supporters have responded to these accusations with reminders that Coruscant still has a planetary governor as well as ample representation in the Galactic Senate. 


	3. These Old Wounds (Part I: Among Ruins)

Cobalt sea met cyan sky in a perfect line that seemed to stretch on forever. The view was only broken by the sight of stony cliffs, their rocky edges topped with a vibrant grass like morning dew on a garden. Rising above it all was a cylinder carved of the same stone as the cliff face—its polished surface glinted in the midmorning sun, save for the parts of the cylinder that were wrapped in the embrace of barren tree branches 

Qui-Gon Jinn looked on at the lighthouse—it was perched precariously on the cliff’s edge as if it were some long-necked bird gazing out at the sea. Beside the lighthouse, a flag wavered in the gentle morning breeze. As each oscillation stretched the tattered cloth out fully, Qui-Gon could make out the emblem embroidered onto it—twenty tick marks arranged in a perfect circle, like a clock face with too many hours on it. 

She sighed at the sight, and marched forward toward the lighthouse’s front door. With each step the base of her spine ached—the phantom pains of a war wound suffered years ago. Still, she walked without the aid of a cane; to an outside observer, the only sign of an injury would have been the slight arrhythmia of her gait. 

As she reached the door of the lighthouse, she leaned into it with her shoulder and gave it a shove. Carved from solid wood rather than the stone of the cliffs, aged by years of salty winds, it gave slightly as she pushed. There was a softness to the touch, not unlike the feeling of a well-used boat dock beneath bare feet. It creaked as it swung inward, opening to the warmth of the lighthouse interior. 

When she’d first found the place, not long after her arrival on Aquilae, Qui-Gon had taken great care not to move anything from its final resting place. The interior served as a snapshot of how the long-deceased lighthouse keeper had presumably kept the place. At the rear of the room, a spiral staircase led upward to the building’s peak. A fireplace was set into one wall—beside it was a desk littered with workbench tools, and on the opposite wall sat a series of bookshelves. 

The center of the room bore at least one trace of home. A tree jutted upward, its branches snaking outward through the walls of the stone structure, winding around the outside of the lighthouse like grapevines on a trellis. The tree’s roots burrowed beneath the floor—cracks in the stone zigzagged away from each point where a root had taken hold. Around the base of the tree, the same twenty tick marks found on the flag outside were carved into the floor in even intervals, each inlaid with a sliver of colorful glass.

To most, the sight would have meant nothing—it merely represented an ill-fated attempt to plant a tree inside a lighthouse. Qui-Gon knew better. Stepping forward, she placed the palm of her hand against the tree and closed her eyes. 

Nothing. 

The tree wasn’t dead, not in the traditional sense—but it had lost its energy, or perhaps never had any in the first place. That was how Qui-Gon had found it, and it was how it had stayed with each visit, despite her repeated attempts to reinvigorate its connection to the Force. 

_ Another time, perhaps,  _ the voice at the back of Qui-Gon’s mind whispered.  _ That’s not why you’re here _ . 

Removing her hand from the tree, she took a step back and exhaled slowly. The voice was right—she’d come here for another reason, and it wasn’t proper to keep the Force waiting. Making her way toward the spiral stairs at the rear of the chamber, Qui-Gon hoisted herself up onto the first step with a wince. 

Up she climbed, each step proving slightly easier than the last. For though the tree lacked any link to the Force, the lighthouse itself served as a sort of antenna. Its rising form channeled the energy that bound the universe, pointing it upward to the heavens. The higher Qui-Gon went, the more she could feel it coursing through her, and as she reached the apex of the lighthouse the feeling was as strong as it could possibly be. 

Arriving at the top reminded her of the truth: this was no lighthouse, not in the traditional sense. It cast no illumination, served not to guide wayward sailors away from dangerous shores. It cast a different kind of light, one that only certain individuals could see. It was a guiding beacon for those connected to the Force. 

The circular room atop the lighthouse contained no lamp nor lightbulb, no lens to focus a beam across the sea. Rather, a series of gears and mirrors and shards of kyber crystal hung in the center of the space, a complex clockwork creation that Qui-Gon had only the barest understanding of. But she knew enough. 

Gears ground against each other; mirrors spun and rotated, bouncing sunlight off their surfaces and into the shards of crystal suspended between them. With each tick of the elaborate clock, each crank of machinery or shifting of a crystalline mirror, the energy of the Force pulsed outward from the contraption. Qui-Gon inhaled slowly through her nose, willing her heartbeat to slow—an old technique, a favorite of her Jedi instructor. The key, his fellow Jedi Masters would have once said, to his unshakable demeanor. 

Each beat of her heart was more distant than the last, and before long the thumping beneath her ribs perfectly matched the ticking of the ancient machine. She let each wave of the energy wash over her, falling to her knees and opening her palms in a meditative pose as her eyes fluttered shut. 

When they opened again, Qui-Gon was no longer alone atop the lighthouse. She was no longer in the lighthouse at all. 

The deep earth tones of a polished hardwood floor stretched out beneath her feet. Her eyes followed the grain of the wood, its undulating waves contrasting with the perfectly parallel edges of each slat, until she came upon the edge of the room she now stood in. The floor met the wall and stretched upward into a bookshelf that reached for the ceiling, its shelves packed with leatherbound tomes. Gilded Aurebesh script was inlaid along each book’s spine, the titles reflecting the hues of a perpetual sunset which filtered through grand glasswork windows that formed one entire wall of the rectangular room. 

“I haven’t been here in ages,” she whispered, reaching out to brush her hand against the softness of one book’s cover, grinning as her fingertips traced each letter of the title. Her voice carried an otherworldly resonance, as if it were coming from somewhere other than her own mouth. 

The baritone echo of the voice that came after hers wavered much the same, though beneath the strange timbre there was no mistaking whose words she was hearing. “Strictly speaking,” Count Dooku said, “you’ve never been  _ here  _ at all.” 

Her former Jedi instructor sat at a desk positioned in the room’s exact midpoint, resting atop a woven area rug and carved from an exquisite imported wood. He was hunched over a notebook—though his posture remained somehow impeccable—reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose and writing stylus cradled between his fingers. He gingerly placed the stylus on the desk as though it were liable to shatter if one set it down too hard. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Hello, Qui-Gon.” 

She turned from the bookshelf to face him and offered a slow nod. “Dooku.” Qui-Gon’s eyes wandered around the room until a glance out the window proved his statement true. Though the space appeared identical to Dooku’s old university office—back when he was a professor rather than a count—the view was not the one she remembered. Absent was the central campus green of the University of Taris—instead the window framed the skyline of Stratum Apolune, dozens of floating spires linked by outstretched bridges. Giants holding hands above the clouds. 

_ The way it used to be,  _ a voice in her head said.  _ Before— _

Her heart caught in her throat, and she couldn’t finish the thought. “You made this place.”

He nodded, clasping his hands atop the still-open notebook. “Familiar spaces are useful for introspection. For meditation.” 

“You miss it, then?” She felt herself move across the room as if her body were a ship being steered by someone else, heels clicking against the hardwood as she walked. “Being a teacher, I mean.” 

A sigh escaped the count’s lips. “A teacher of philosophy? Or a teacher of the Force?” 

Qui-Gon shrugged, offering a smirk. “Is there a difference?” 

This was enough to make him crack a smile. “The students,” he said, raising one eyebrow. He gestured to the hair atop his head. “Teaching at university didn’t turn me gray, Madame Jinn.” 

Flourishing her hand, she leaned slightly forward in a mock bow. “You’re welcome.” 

Closing the cover of his notebook, Dooku leaned back in his chair ever so slightly—the furniture creaked in response to the motion. “What brings you here, Qui-Gon?” 

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the ticking of a clock, or perhaps the distant movement of the lighthouse mechanism back on Aquilae somehow slicing through the image of Dooku’s office. A fireplace crackled here too—set in the wall behind Dooku’s desk, the wavering flames framed the count in haunting silhouette.

“There was a disturbance in the Force,” she said after some time, turning to lock eyes with Dooku as she spoke. “A wave of unspeakable darkness.” 

She watched as his face shifted—the slightest tightening of the jaw, the briefest narrowing of the eyes. His hand almost imperceptibly shaky, the count removed his reading glasses and placed them on top of the notebook’s leather cover. Gaze turning to meet hers, Dooku gave a single shake of his head. 

In that moment, Qui-Gon knew. “You felt it too.” 

“Qui-Gon,” he said. “You don’t have to do this.” 

Her scowl served as an unspoken question; though she said nothing, the count continued. 

“You are on a journey,” he said, placing his palms against the desk and shoving against it to rise to his feet. “One of great importance. Do not let events occurring halfway across the galaxy distract you from the here and now. If you open this door, there is no shutting it again.”

“Dooku, please,” she interrupted, taking a half step in his direction. “When I felt it . . . “

She trailed off, recalling that morning, when the disturbance had washed over her. It had struck her like the icy rush of a northern ocean wave, nearly knocking her over as the fear and darkness had plunged into her gut. “You’d have me choose willful ignorance? No. If I decide to ignore this, it will be an informed decision. What happened?” 

“I strongly advise you to—”

“I’ll make my own advice,” she interrupted, wincing as her voice echoed off the office walls.

Her old teacher closed his eyes and inhaled sharply through his nose. “I sense great fear in you, Qui-Gon. You want the answers to your questions, and yet you do not. You fear those answers.” He paused, rounding the desk before speaking again. “What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know. That’s  _ why  _ I’m afraid.” 

Dooku’s eyes slid closed, his head bowing in a slow half-nod as a resigned sigh escaped his lips. He gestured to the office’s window. “You must have answers? You’ll find them there.”

When she spun to face the massive sheet of glass, Stratum Apolune had disappeared. In its place was a skyline she’d come to know all too well—the downtown capitol district of the Galactic Republic. Skyscrapers lacquered in mirror-glazed transparisteel bounced daylight back into the sky, speeders weaving between them in perfect rows of traffic like a marching line of ants. 

Qui-Gon could just make out her old place of employment in the distance of the image. The tower which housed the Office of Interplanetary Outreach jutted into the sky mere blocks from the most notable structure on the block—the Senate Building. 

Its domed shell was home to a smoking crater, the curved dagger of a warship jutting out of the wound.

Qui-Gon’s eyes grew wide as her heart plunged within her chest. “Is that the  _ Charybdis?”  _

Dooku—who had moved to stand beside her so silently it was as if he’d simply appeared there—nodded. “It started small. A band of clones and pirates carrying out terrorist attacks across Coruscant. This”—he gestured out the window—”was their grand finale.” 

She cocked her head to one side. “A bit theatrical for Maul, isn’t it?” 

“Not Maul,” Dooku corrected—when she shot him a sideways glance, he offered the slightest of shrugs. “Not  _ only  _ Maul.” 

A stretch of silence gave way to realization, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help but gasp. “Clones and  _ pirates _ , you said?” she asked, though she didn’t wait for Dooku to answer. “Valis is with him.” 

“So it would seem.”

In that moment, she realized what it was she’d been afraid of. “The Jedi Temple.”

Dooku seemed unfazed at the mention of the Jedi Order’s home. “What of it?” 

“Was it attacked?” 

Spinning on a heel, the Count of Serenno strolled away from the window, offering Qui-Gon a shrug and a sidelong glance as he moved. “Why would it have been?”

Her eyes grew wide with desperation as she jabbed a finger toward the window. “Two  _ Sith  _ attacked Coruscant. Why  _ wouldn’t  _ it have been? If you’re so convinced the Temple is fine, prove it.” 

Dooku stopped in his tracks, firing a stern glare at his former student. “If you’re asking me to show it to you, I’m afraid I cannot. My connection to that place has long since withered away.” 

“That can’t be true!” she shot back, leaning forward as she spoke as though her words were carrying her deeper into the room. “You lived there for decades, Dooku. The Temple was your home, the Order was your family.” 

The stern glare of the count held firm. “I cannot sense what happened at the Temple. But I am confident your Jedi friends are safe.” 

“How?” 

“It would have made the news.” 

When a sharp breath escaped her lips, Dooku held a hand high as if to interrupt. 

“I apologize,” he continued. “I intend no callousness. But the fact remains: if the Temple of the Jedi Order had been discovered on Coruscant, much less destroyed, it would be the only thing anyone was talking about on the holonet. No news is good news, Qui-Gon.” 

She whirled around to gaze out the window, her eyes following the smoke that curled upward from the smoldering remains of the  _ Charybdis _ . He was right, of course. She stretched her senses out as far as they would go—beyond the walls of the vision of Dooku’s office, beyond the clouds of Aquilae that hung above her corporeal form. Though she failed to reach as far as Coruscant, the expansion of her feelings brought some level of comfort. The Jedi were safe. For now.

Qui-Gon blinked, and when her eyes had opened again the Capitol Plaza was gone, replaced by the view of Stratum Apolune bathed in evening sunlight. 

“You sense their safety, and yet your heart is still laced with worry.” Dooku said. His voice came from across the office—when Qui-Gon turned to glance over her shoulder, she saw him settling in to one of the office’s armchairs. 

“Yours isn’t?” she asked. “The last time Maul and Valis were together—”

She bit back the words before she could say something truly unforgivable, looking at the vision of Serenno’s capital as it floated in the distance.  _ The last time Maul and Valis were together, they brought down something much larger than a temple. _

He must have known what she’d intended to say. But when her old master spoke, his voice was gentle. “Of course it is. You were right—the Jedi Temple was my home for many years, I can’t erase its mark on my life. But I don’t let my worry distract me from the tasks I’m given now.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Qui-Gon asked softly, her gaze still fixed outside the window. She could hear the chair creaking behind her as Dooku moved about. 

“I left the Jedi Order to make a journey across the galaxy. I did so with the aim of studying all aspects of the Force. Of learning things the Jedi could not teach me. I sought to broaden my understanding of this energy that binds us all together.” He paused, and all Qui-Gon could hear for a moment was the sound of his breathing—or perhaps the distant ocean wind of Aquilae. “You are on a similar journey now. Tell me, Qui-Gon,” Dooku continued, “why did  _ you  _ leave the Jedi Order and undertake this journey?” 

She spun around to face him. “I didn’t leave the Order!” 

Dooku said nothing at first, merely opening both palms toward the ceiling and raising his eyebrows. After a suitable silence had lingered, he spoke. “Perhaps there lies the problem.” 

“The Jedi make an easy scapegoat, Dooku,” Qui-Gon said between half-clenched teeth. “I’ll grant you that. But me staying with the Order is not the problem here.” 

“I never said it was,” Dooku replied lightly. “The problem is your lack of focus on your present task. I abandoned my own to take the throne as Count of Serenno, and look how that turned out.” 

In an instant, the sight outside the window transformed. Gone was the whole of Stratum Apolune, soaked in sunset oranges and teeming with life. Ashen clouds and light tinged with sorrow blanketed a city that was a shadow of its former self—the few giants that remained in the sky now stood alone.

The view of what Serenno had become made Qui-Gon’s stomach sink. When she could bear to look no longer, she turned her gaze toward Dooku. “You can’t possibly think that if you had just continued your travels, Stratum Apolune would still be here.” 

Solemnity flashed across the count’s face, his eyes turning toward the floor. “I think that every day.” 

A moment of mutual mourning hung in the air between Dooku and his former student; when the silence had gone on long enough, he raised his eyes to look at her. “I do not ask for pity, Qui-Gon. I made my choices, and must live with them, just as your friends must live with theirs. But you too will have to live with yours.

“You’re right, your allegiance to the Jedi is not incompatible with your journey of discovery. But it may be a hindrance to it. A distraction, if you will. If you ignore this incident on Coruscant, someday there will be another that threatens to call you away. And another, if you ignore that one. You will spend your days looking to the horizon rather than living in the present, never able to glean anything of value from the here and now.”

“So, what? I should just ignore this disturbance in the Force and . . . get back to work? Focus on the ‘here and now’?” The final words left her mouth with the deflated energy of resignation.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Qui-Gon. I’m not your teacher anymore,” Dooku replied, leaning forward in the armchair and placing his elbows on his knees. “I can tell you that if you leave what you’re doing and return to the Jedi Order, that will be the end of it. Once returned to, the Order is not so easily left again.” 

The sound of crackling fire bloomed within the office, its light and sound now coming from multiple angles. Qui-Gon turned to face the window—Stratum Apolune had gone again, replaced by the image of a burning pyre surrounded by robed figures. 

A Jedi funeral.

She remembered this one well—she had stood by Dooku’s side as the pyre had been lit, and watched as the flames glinted in the tears rolling down his face. The Order had lost a Jedi that day, but Dooku, Count of Serenno, had lost a friend. 

“That is not—” Qui-Gon began, her voice cracking as she spoke. “What happened to him will not happen to me.” 

“The Republic is at war, Qui-Gon, and the Jedi are far too tangled in it. You said it yourself: two Sith attacked Coruscant.” He closed his eyes. “This will get worse for the Jedi before it gets better. If you go back, I can’t protect you.” 

“I didn’t ask you to,” she said. “You’re not my teacher anymore, remember?” 

A long sigh left Dooku’s mouth. “That doesn’t mean I want you rushing into danger, Qui-Gon.” Shoving against the structure of the armchair, Dooku rose to his feet. “But you’re right. Ultimately it is up to you. All I can do is offer advice. Stay where you are. Learn about the Force. If you must return to them, the Jedi will still be there when you’re done.” 

His final words danced across Qui-Gon’s mind like a distant echo, and moments later she couldn’t be certain if Dooku’s office had ever been there at all. The sky of Aquilae returned around her, harsh light and salted air swirling about the ancient machine perched at the top of the lighthouse. 

She hauled herself to her feet with some effort, every muscle in her body protesting along the way. Her head pulsed with each heartbeat as the energy of her encounter with Dooku flowed back out of her. When she’d summoned enough strength to walk, her erratic steps carried her away from the lighthouse’s peak, back toward reality. 

* * *

Hobbled, uneven footfalls saw Qui-Gon nearly tripping onto the ground floor of the old lighthouse—as she fell, she reached out and caught herself on the corner of the desk that had once belonged to the lighthouse keeper. Bound tomes were stacked haphazardly around the desk’s centerpiece—one in particular stood out amongst the pile, a well-loved and tattered copy of a text widely used by Jedi. The Aurebesh script along its spine was worn down to the point of illegibility, though its cover still boasted visible type:  _ Aspects of the Force, Volume I – The Light. _

Beneath the book sat a second volume,  _ The Dark.  _ Qui-Gon reflexively recoiled at the sight of it. Though copies of the first volume of  _ Aspects of the Force  _ were distributed freely within the Jedi Temple, copies of the second were kept under the close watch of the Temple’s chief archivist—to be checked out of the library only by Masters, or on occasion students with special authorization. She recalled her chaperoned sessions to the Jedi Archives, where rows of students sat at a long table, reading the assigned passages from this forbidden text under the close watch of Master Jocasta Nu. 

In the evening, late after one such session, she’d been visited in her dormitory by her own teacher. Dooku had brought with him a few texts from his personal collection—further volumes of  _ Aspects of the Force  _ Qui-Gon had not even known to exist. 

“ _ Look around this room,”  _ Dooku had said as he placed the books atop Qui-Gon’s desk. “ _ Study each object. Are light and dark the only things you see?”  _

She hadn’t answered him. He would have kept talking regardless of what she said—he had, after all, a point to make. 

_ “Of course not. There is color; there is texture, depth, and weight.”  _ She recalled him picking something up from her desk—a trinket of some sort, from Qlik’s workshop—and turning it in his hand as he spoke of all its qualities. _ “Waves of sound ebb and flow around each and every thing. The passage of time sees it all age.”  _ Dooku had paused, setting down the object and kneeling beside Qui-Gon’s bed.  _ “So it is with the Force. To reduce its vastness to a mere binary is hopelessly simplistic.”  _

He had been right, Qui-Gon knew—she’d come to realize it in her time away from the Jedi Temple. And yet, as she moved through the room that comprised the base of the old lighthouse, two things stood out to her. The first was the pulsing glow of the fireplace. The second was the great shifting shadow cast by the tree—which only grew as the fireplace flickered brighter. 

_ If the Jedi are the light of the Force,  _ she thought,  _ what is one to do when there’s a growing darkness in the galaxy?  _ Running back to the Temple wasn’t the answer, if Dooku was to be believed. 

Qui-Gon sighed and reached out an open hand, snatching an old broom from a hook on the wall. As her fingers closed around the wooden stick, she felt the phantom vibrations of a lightsaber pulsate through her arm. Shifting her grip on the broomstick so it was positioned more for swordplay than for sweeping, she brought the pretend blade to bear and put on her best imitation of her old Jedi instructor. 

“Sloppy footwork, Madame Jinn!” she muttered in an overly posh impression of Dooku’s accent. Shuffling forward and thrusting with the point of the broomstick, she imagined herself back in the Jedi Temple courtyard doing lightsaber drills with her fellow students. 

Then, in an instant, she grabbed the base of the broomstick with both hands and whirled in a circle, slashing the wooden handle through the air. She could hear the hum of her old lightsaber, see its green glow washing across her sleeves. She moved not as a student but as a Jedi Knight, cutting down the agents of evil who threatened peace in the galaxy.  _ Hums  _ and  _ hisses  _ of plasma on plastoid seemed to sizzle through the air as Qui-Gon Jinn, Knight of the Jedi Order, leapt through the air and stabbed downward with her imaginary blade. 

When she landed on her feet and spun around, she saw a figure cloaked in darkness rushing toward her. Beneath the shadow of its hood, the specter’s irises glowed a piercing yellow. It brandished a red-bladed lightsaber, and stalked toward Qui-Gon with cool confidence, pure determination, and sheer will. 

She gasped and fell backwards, tumbling into a bookshelf set against the lighthouse wall. The wound in her abdomen burned with the memory of pain so intense it might as well have been real, then went searingly cold as she exhaled. Qui-Gon squeezed her eyes shut and let the broom clatter to the stone floor—when she opened them again, the hooded figure had disappeared. 

Scrambling to her feet, she made for the lighthouse door; shoving against the gently textured wood and nearly ripping it from its hinges. She stumbled outward into the flowing grass of the cliffside, fighting the urge to stare back at the lighthouse as she ran. She’d come back later, when she was more certain she hadn’t just seen something real. Right now she needed to think. 

And to do that, she needed to be as far away from here as possible. 

* * *

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: ON THE MATTER OF PERMITTED TEXTS FOR JEDI STUDENTS** _

_ [excerpt from a letter penned by the Jedi High Council, addressed to the Jedi Master Dooku of Serenno] _

Of greater concern is the distribution of, as you so generously referred to them, “extracurricular texts” to your Jedi pupil. Did it not occur to you, Master Dooku, that if the second volume of  _ Aspects of the Force  _ is considered a restricted book, the volumes following it would be considered such as well? 

Your student faces a difficult path ahead, as all students at her stage of training do. We educate our young Jedi on the concept of the dark side as a matter of warning—but it is no secret that this precautionary education can quickly turn to undue temptation. This is hardly the time to muddy the waters with further considerations about what lies beyond the concept of light and dark. 

We urge you to collect these texts from Madame Jinn and keep them in your possession until a more appropriate time. Furthermore, we ask you to consider whether such concepts are really something we as a Jedi Order want taught within our Temple walls. If you find this disagreeable, perhaps a more in-depth face-to-face discussion would be beneficial. 


	4. The Secret Keepers (Part I: Among Ruins)

When Obi-Wan closed his eyes, it was almost possible to imagine he was in the Temple as it had been. Extending his perceptions through the Force, he could feel the blades of grass beneath him, the roots of the great tree in the center of the courtyard digging deep into the last soil of Coruscant. The tree itself was a scraggled shaft of light, its branches splitting outward into hundreds of separate trails through the Force. A low breeze brushed past his face, cooling his skin, its whispers a faint music only he could hear. Everything else fell away—it was simply him, and the garden, and the universe beyond.

Then, unbidden, searing red flashed across his vision, piercing through his eyelids and into his brain. Fire, sweeping over everything.

The premonitions had begun shortly before the attack. Linked, Obi-Wan had believed—the connection was so obvious it was impossible to think it could be anything else. But of course, as his master would have said, if something is so obvious it has to be true, it very likely isn’t. And sure enough, even after the mingled Confederate and mercenary ships had fled Coruscant’s orbit, the fiery images had persisted.

As quickly as it had come, the burning left, taking with it the reserves of concentration Obi-Wan had built up. The Jedi plunged back into himself, his eyes and ears snapping open and reminding him that he was not remotely alone.

Murmurs filled the courtyard. Where usually it would host a handful of the Temple’s occupants at various points of the day, now it was a constant meeting place, pairs or groups of three congregating to sit on the grass or pace along the perimeter and whisper their concerns. It was only natural, of course—the courtyard and the tree within had long been a symbol of serenity, and peace and strength were both in short supply these days. It was just unfortunate that everyone had had the same natural desire for peace and strength at once.

Seen with Obi-Wan’s eyes and not the Force, the tree looked remarkably . . . old. Weary. Twisted wood groaning with the burden of age, its foliage present but perhaps a shade less green than it had been a year ago. It reminded the Jedi of the way his master had looked on Dagobah, the last time he’d been there. Age brought wisdom, but it also brought fragility.

These days, it was hard to tell whether the tradeoff was worth it.

Sighing, Obi-Wan cast his eyes to the ceiling above. Stars twinkled overhead, not the harbingers of oncoming night but the heralds of early morning. No one had been sleeping well around here for the last several weeks, himself least of all. If it wasn’t searching for ways to help or flinching from visions of flame, his mind was fixated on one thing: worrying about his friends. Many of whom were within these walls, but most of whom were  _ out there _ , whether that phrase signified distant worlds or the planet above.

_ And for some of them,  _ rose the unbidden thought, before his insomnia-addled brain could chase it away,  _ the two might as well be the same thing. _

Shoving those thoughts down, he knew, never did any good, but he was too tired to do anything else.  _ They’re both alive,  _ he scolded himself,  _ you know that much. Thinking about it further won’t do any good right now. _

Still. He did. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t once stopped.

Suppressing a groan as he rose to his feet and felt his limbs fight off stiffness, Obi-Wan looked toward the nearest exit—one which led in the direction of the Temple dining hall. Aware of the gnawing in his stomach—had he skipped dinner last night?—he decided that if he wasn’t going to be able to fight off his errant worries with sleep, he might at least try with some food.

* * *

Before Obi-Wan could take his bowl of stew and quietly retreat to a corner, he saw Cin Drallig wave her hand at him from her breakfast group. “Kenobi, join us.”

He wasn’t in the state of mind for a conversation with  _ one _ person, let alone a table of them, but neither was he inclined to rudeness, especially where the Temple’s battlemaster was concerned. Nodding, he crossed over to the table and took a seat.

Drallig’s flinty gaze was as alert as ever despite what Obi-Wan knew had been endless shifts keeping guard just inside the Temple’s concealed entrance. Beside her, Luminara Unduli, another Knight, looked as though she were ready to fall asleep in her meal at any moment, though she wrenched herself upright to greet Obi-Wan. The other two members of the party were healers—Barriss Offee, a Mirialan like Luminara, and another relatively young face, human, that Obi-Wan didn’t recognize.  _ When exactly did I stop knowing the new people?  _ he wondered as he blew on a mouthful of stew, put it in his mouth, and discovered it was still too hot. When had young faces become a category separate from his own?

Swallowing the burning food as quickly as was polite to do so, he replied to Drallig’s inquiry as to his well-being, “As good as can be expected. Wishing I could do more, of course—I’ve another free hour before my shift at the tunnel junction begins. Though from what I hear we may be winding down on extra guard duty for Knights fairly soon?”

Nodding, Drallig shifted the crags of her face into a frown. “Not my decision, but I was outvoted at the council. Wish you’d been there and not on watch, Kenobi, I could have used a spare Master’s vote.”

Barris Offee spoke before Obi-Wan could. “It’s for the best, Master Drallig, isn’t it?” Luminara, the girl’s master, woke up remarkably quickly at this, shooting her apprentice a warning gaze, but the young woman ignored it. “Keeping the Temple healers on constant notice just to treat Jedi injuries seems selfish. We’ve got to start going out and helping the rest of the planet.”

Drallig was a bit notorious for being hard-nosed—Obi-Wan remembered an occasion when as young Knights he and Qui-Gon had kept a bet running as to whether the battlemaster or Dooku would be the first to snap and throw Qui-Gon in a holding cell for some smart remark. With Barris, however, she simply narrowed her eyes a little and then sighed. “Of course we need to help them. But we won’t  _ be _ of much help if something finds its way into the Temple and starts wreaking havoc. We’ve lost enough Knights lately as it is. I don’t like sending more out from these walls than we can spare.”

The young Jedi Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to place spoke up, tapping his fingers on the table as if conscious that he was pushing his luck. “But the Confederates are already gone—”

“We don’t know that, Oren,” she snapped at him. “Palpatine says they may still have troops hidden all throughout the underworld, and for once I think the man has a point.”

“But Master Drallig,” put in Barris, glancing at Oren much the same way her master had with her a few moments ago, “if that’s true, they could stay on the planet for  _ years _ if they hid. Are we supposed to just stay cooped up in here that whole time?”

The battlemaster’s patience had evidently reached its end. Raising her voice enough that Obi-Wan instinctively looked around the dining hall to make sure they weren’t being overheard, she said, “Taking reasonable precautions is not the same as—”

“Master Drallig, if I might,” Obi-Wan cut in, before Barris or Oren could get themselves a further lashing. Feeling a little foolish at the instinctive urge to shrink back that hit him when she turned to look at him—he hadn’t lost as much of his youthful self as he’d thought—he said, “I understand your concern, of course. But the Temple’s concealments wouldn’t be easy for any clones to penetrate even if they  _ were _ on the planet. No one has found us in all the time we’ve been here, and the clones aren’t exactly given to independent thinking. Even if some of the mercenaries down below are on the enemy’s side, I can’t see them finding this place.”

“And there’s also the public to consider,” put in Luminara, blinking her bleary eyes and pulling herself focused. “Medical teams all over Coruscant are already overwhelmed, and people are going to keep dying. There are already whispers asking why the Jedi didn’t do more to fight off the Confederates, if we exist. If we don’t do more to help innocent people recover, that resentment toward us will start to boil over.”

Drallig waved her hand, though her eyes had begun to waver a bit. “If they don’t believe we exist, how can they believe we aren’t helping?”

This time Oren spoke up again, in a voice that was far less hesitant than before—it was as though hearing Obi-Wan and Luminara speak in his defense had given him confidence. “With all due respect, Master, you’ve stayed here in the Temple for the last fifteen years. You don’t venture outside the way Barris and I do—the way Master Kenobi and Master Unduli do,” he added.

Obi-Wan could feel the faint thrill the boy experienced at being able to speak on behalf of two masters, and despite the circumstances had to suppress a tiny smile.

“The Jedi aren’t what we used to be,” Oren continued, and looked from side to side before leaning in closer. “People talk about us now. They don’t all believe we exist—I don’t even know if most of them do—but they wonder. And they wonder why we can’t be the heroes we’re supposed to be, if we’re out there.”

The battlemaster scoffed, but Obi-Wan could sense that beneath her veneer this information had dislodged a tiny piece of security. He could sympathize. “At any rate,” she said, “the question isn’t about the secrecy of the Order.”

“No,” Luminara spoke up again. “It’s about doing the right thing.”

“Prioritizing the Order’s safety, then?” Drallig asked, the challenge just under the surface making the forced good humor of the question worse.

“I . . . Master Drallig, I can’t say that Oren is wrong. It’s not just about saving people here on Coruscant—it’s about the war.” Leaning in and lowering her voice to ensure neighboring tables couldn’t hear, Luminara said, “We’ve overextended the people we have out there on the front lines. Those who are fighting can’t do much good, and the gaps we leave bring suffering and death. We’re keeping too many people in reserve in the enclaves, or sending people we can’t afford to lose out on . . . witch hunts.” Even as she said these last words, Obi-Wan saw her incline her head slightly, as if to lean into an oncoming blow—she’d gone too far and knew it.

“So fighting the Sith is a witch hunt, is it?” barked the battlemaster, loud enough that Obi-Wan winced—he could see several Jedi nearby turn their heads at the outburst, then quickly return to their food. Drallig’s prior hesitation had toppled over into outright anger, a sudden seething in the Force.

Luminara too flinched at the volume and at the sensation of outrage, but kept her own voice level. “It is if we do it without purpose. Killing Maul won’t end the war singlehanded. Taking care of the Sith won’t wipe out all threats to the Order. And the people we’re throwing away against him could have saved so many other lives if they’d lived.”

Drallig gathered herself up, ready to shout again. And then, for the first time since Obi-Wan had joined the table, she broke eye contact from everyone present, looking intently down at her plate as she chopped at it with a fork.

It was disconcerting to see her this way. Obi-Wan’s mind again flitted to Yoda, and the tree in the courtyard. To his own face in the mirror these days.

Looking around the faces at the table and then back at Drallig, he said softly, “Surely there’s a compromise that can be reached. Something that lets us keep our people safe and do what we’re meant to do at the same time. If it means protecting our healers when they venture outside, I’m happy to serve as bodyguard for any of them.”

The battlemaster looked up and snorted, a weary smile suggesting itself. “The Negotiator, after all this time. I thought you’d stopped being a general, Kenobi.”

“One never quite loses the habit, I suppose,” he replied, allowing himself an encouraging smile of his own.

With a sigh so short it resembled a cough, Drallig speared a piece of meat with her fork. “It could be a possibility. At the next council I’ll bring it up—and don’t pick up any more extra shifts, Kenobi, I want you there to vote with me.”

“Who says he’ll vote with you?” asked a new voice just behind Obi-Wan.

Jumping at the unexpected sensation, the former general turned around in his seat. It was a face whose stony nature matched Cin Drallig’s, though it was smooth instead of furrowed, the lip curled in reflexive disdain. Mace Windu, in usual form.

Before Drallig could bark at him for rudeness, Windu locked eyes with Obi-Wan. “Kenobi. A word?”

His stomach rumbled faintly—he’d only managed a few bites of his stew—but Mace Windu didn’t go out of his way to talk to anyone, which meant this had to be at least somewhat important. Sighing inwardly, Obi-Wan nodded and pushed himself back from the table. “Forgive me, everyone.”

“Goodbye, Master Kenobi,” said Barris, while Oren gave a nod of his own. Luminara waved and passed along a mental message of gratitude— _ Thanks for saving them from a dressing-down. _

Sending back a pulse of acknowledgment, he turned and followed Windu, who was already exiting the dining hall. As he rushed to catch up, Obi-Wan cast one last look back at his abandoned bowl of stew and felt his stomach clench longingly. The Force, it seemed, was to be his only source of energy for the time being.

* * *

“How you holding up?” Windu grunted.

“Fine, I—Mace, is this really the place for a conversation?”

They’d taken the spiral staircase all the way down to the Hall of the Fallen, where Windu had shut the door behind them. The two men stood in front of an army of stone plinths, each bearing a foot-long metal cylinder pointed upward—lightsaber hilts of Jedi who’d died in battle. Obi-Wan was not given to superstition, but the idea of having a casual talk here felt irreverent, as though they were disturbing a congress of ghosts.

“Only place in the Temple I know we’re not likely to be followed,” replied Windu, as he began to pace down an aisle of recovered weapons. “I’d rather not have people like Drallig drop in on us.”

After a moment, Obi-Wan started down the path adjacent to Windu’s. Part of him felt the perverse urge to reach down and run his fingers along the sabers as he passed; banishing the thought, he turned to look at his companion. “And what’s so secret that you’d rather not have us dropped in on?”

“How’s Skywalker?”

This was said with the same underlying contempt Windu said most things, but it startled Obi-Wan to hear that it wasn’t just reflex this time. Windu  _ meant _ it. “I . . . I can’t say that I know. We haven’t spoken in—well, a long time.”

Before he could stop himself, he was reliving the moments he’d spent rambling into his commlink a few days ago—the sinking feeling of  _ This was a terrible idea _ that had come over him the instant he hit  _ send _ on the message to his former student. Windu must have sensed the dismay, or seen it in Obi-Wan’s face; he was silent for a moment, and then said, “Well that’s a hell of an ending for the dream team.”

Obi-Wan was almost grateful for the irritation that rose up inside him at the remark—it gave him something else to focus on. “And my friendship with Anakin is relevant to you—why, exactly?”

The other Jedi snorted. “Take it easy. I can’t reach out to him myself, and I haven’t spoken to Amidala since Naboo, so I don’t think she’d take very kindly to my going through her. Just figured you might still be in touch. Might be able to ask him some questions.”

They’d traveled about halfway across the sea of upturned weapons—Obi-Wan could dimly make out the back of the room, the door to the final chamber. “Mace, I’m afraid I haven’t time for this. I have a shift in a little while, and I should try to—”

“Did Amidala ever tell you what happened on Naboo?” Windu broke in, suddenly halting and locking eyes with him.

_ Ah.  _ So that was what this was about.

In the scattered times he’d spent with Padmé in the last two years—a hurried lunch here, five minutes spent waiting to see Bail there—there had been one constant, unspoken rule: Anakin was not brought up. At first this had been largely for Obi-Wan’s own sake, he thought—Padmé trying not to talk about the friend the Jedi never got to see anymore. But in the last year or so, Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to shake the conviction that the rule was no longer for his benefit.  _ Padmé  _ was the one who didn’t want to talk about Anakin. Or, more specifically, his job.

But the last time he’d seen her had been different. It had been a couple of months ago, before the world had come crashing down around their ears—she’d called him with such chipperness that Obi-Wan knew she was faking her good mood, and asked if he’d care to join her on her day off. So they’d met at the diner Obi-Wan frequented in the Works, and rather than the usual hour of hurriedly wolfing down food and tipetoeing around areas of conversation they’d rather not touch, they’d talked all afternoon. It had been . . . nice.

Just before they’d finally paid the check and gone their separate ways, he’d plucked up the courage to say: “ _ Much as I’m delighted to have been your companion for the afternoon, I would think you’d have preferred to spend it with Anakin. Is he away? _ ”

Just like that, the sense of ease they’d fallen back into had whisked away like air through a viewport. Padmé, whose sudden bitterness Obi-Wan could have sensed from a building away, had replied, “ _ Well,  _ technically  _ he’s here. But when he’s not sleeping he’s running himself ragged day and night for the glorious leader. They had some kind of function to attend today. _ ”

He’d intended, then, to hastily change the subject, try to salvage their parting moments together. Before he could, though, she’d asked, “ _ Have you guys been . . . keeping an eye on him? _ ”

For a moment guilt had welled up inside him as he panicked, wondering if she knew about all the times he’d almost called, or had kept his eyes moving from person to person as he walked through the Senate in hopes of catching a glimpse of him. But then he realized she wasn’t talking about Anakin.

“ _ On Palpatine? I . . . as close as we do on any chancellor. _ ” A good deal closer, in fact, though that didn’t mean much—they could only keep so many agents in the Senate building, and they could only get so near. He’d thrown a glance behind them to make sure no one was in the nearest booth, then leaned closer and said, “ _ Not that we have spies hiding behind his curtains or anything. Getting caught in that position would not be any way to get the Order into the Republic’s good graces. Why? _ ”

Padmé too had looked behind herself, then turned back to him and lowered her voice to a whisper. “ _A couple years ago, when I ran into Tyyria Nox on Naboo? We weren’t necessarily there for a fundraiser._ _We—_ ”

At that moment, an oncoming squeaking noise had startled both of them upright in their seats—the server droid glided by, her none-too-oiled wheel complaining as it rolled. It passed them without a backward glance, but when Obi-Wan returned his attention to Padmé, she’d closed down, as though invisible blast shields had lowered in front of her eyes.

“ _ Talk to Mace Windu sometime, _ ” she’d told him, and then they’d been saying their awkward goodbyes.

He’d meant to, of course. But then more pressing concerns had come for them all.

Even had Obi-Wan been in the mood to explain all this to Mace, they hadn’t time—his shift would begin soon, and he didn’t want to stay down here any longer than he had to. Instead, he simply said, “I know enough to know that I don’t want you to tell me anything about her part in whatever happened. Or Senator Organa’s.”

Windu nodded. “We didn’t find what we were searching for anyway. We needed concrete. What we got was . . . ghosts. Patterns. They’re enough for me, but not enough for anyone who matters.”

The other Jedi clenched his fists slowly, deliberately. Obi-Wan’s mind flashed to shatterpoint, to the fear of what could happen here if that power were used upon one of the hundreds of crystals filling the hall, but Windu wasn’t making the gesture out of frustration. On the surface, at least, his aura felt as cool as ever.

“What if this were all him, Obi-Wan?” The question, when it left Mace’s lips, wasn’t a question—it was a certainty, as if he’d asked,  _ What if gravity worked?  _ “Not just the new peacekeeping corps, the executive orders, martial law. What if he was the one who set the whole thing spinning and then stood back to watch?”

“I . . . Mace, you can’t mean the war. He wasn’t even in office then—that was . . .”  _ Bail,  _ he didn’t finish, though he felt his face flush with guilt anyway.  _ Me. _

“Oh, Organa was the one who lit the fuse, sure,” replied Windu evenly, unblinking. “But someone had to pour the gunpowder.”

He stepped around the plinth between them so that they both stood in the same aisle, never moving his eyes from Obi-Wan’s. “Think about it, Kenobi. Who’s benefited every step of the way for the last four years? Despite every defeat, every setback, even  _ Coruscant _ being bombed, who has only gotten more and more power while we sat back and watched him take it? Who’s got the police force  _ he created  _ patrolling the streets while Drallig and the others”—here he gestured savagely at the Temple above, his fist coming so close that Obi-Wan had to take an alarmed step back—“hole up and  _ dither _ ?”

It wasn’t the first time Obi-Wan had heard the line of thought. He and Bail had spoken plenty of times about the executive measures, the excuses for greater wartime powers, the consistent erosion of legislative checks. But even though Bail had occasionally hovered on the edge of going further, whatever he and Padmé and Mace and Tyyria had gotten into on Theed hadn’t been enough for him to believe what Mace evidently did. He’d never taken the plunge. Nor would Obi-Wan himself have done so. “Taking advantage of a crisis is not the same thing as starting one, Mace. The scale of what you’re talking about—it’s  _ unthinkable _ .”

“Well,” replied Windu, his lip curling in contempt. “A few weeks ago we would have said the idea of the Confederate flagship plowing a hole into the capital was unthinkable. Now look.”

For the second time that day, Yoda’s words flashed through Obi-Wan’s head.  _ If impossible you say a thing is, take care that’s not because you  _ wish _ it to be so. _

He looked away from Mace and toward the back of the hall—to the chamber at the rear wall. If he were to go inside, there would be twenty lightsabers arranged in a circle—the owners not dead in battle, but vanished centuries ago. Yet another piece of the unthinkable, until it hadn’t been.

As he turned back to Windu, the younger Jedi gestured for him to follow. “Come over here for a second.”

Obi-Wan following, he strode back to the front rows of the hall, to a cluster of plinths that lay in shadow near the western wall. They matched the rows and rows of others, save in one respect: no lightsabers stood atop them.

Fallen but not recovered. It was a group whose members had grown in a steady trickle over the course of the war.

“You and I both know where most of these come from,” said Windu, glaring down at the empty plinths not with contempt but with what Obi-Wan could perceive as raw fury. “How many Knights have been sent after Maul now? A dozen? We know it won’t work, but they keep getting thrown away. Because when it’s a Sith, wasting lives, time, resources—that’s understandable.

“But when it comes to any threat that’s  _ not _ a black-cloaked freak waving a red lightsaber around—well  _ then _ we have to wait. We have to be cautious. Keep an eye on it, but don’t be hasty. Not until it’s setting up its own police forces right next door.

“Well, I did my waiting, Kenobi. For the last two years, I’ve been patient. And all that’s done is let the Confederacy wind up on our doorstep and Palpatine turn that to his advantage. We need to do something.”

Rather than answer, Obi-Wan studied the empty plinths—the space that hung above them felt like a yawning gap far wider than it actually was. It had become something of a minor ritual at this point in the war. Send out a Knight to go after Maul. Stop receiving communications from them after a short period of time. Wait several months before declaring all hope lost. Install a barren pillar in the Hall of the Fallen.

Every time it happened, Obi-Wan would feel a twinge of guilt in the same place.  _ If I’d beaten him, none of this would have happened. These people. Qui-Gon. Serenno. Maybe even the war. _

_ What if he’s right?  _ he thought, feeling Mace’s presence beside him even as his eyes stayed focused on the plinths.  _ What if you could stop something  _ before _ it happens, this time? _

But even as the question’s rush of adrenaline pulsed through his system, Obi-Wan recalled one of the principles he’d tried to live his life by. Hasty action was almost always action wasted, and seemingly easy resolutions always made things harder.  _ And trying to bring down Palpatine in the midst of a war wouldn’t just endanger the Order. It could destroy us. _

He wouldn’t risk that possibility for easy satisfaction. No matter how cathartic it might feel.

With a sigh, he returned his gaze to the other Jedi’s. “Mace, even if you’re sure of this, you yourself have admitted there’s nothing to back it up. Besides, Anakin hasn’t told me anything. And were I to ask him on your behalf, he would refuse to help. He’s devoted to Palpatine. He has been since they first met.”

Windu simply stood still for a moment. Then he sneered, and nodded. “The Negotiator. Fitting title for a coward.”

“Mace, I—”

“It’s funny, you’d think after you faced Maul twice  _ you  _ would be the one they’re sending out after him. Or maybe they know better. Maybe you don’t have what it takes.”

“Mace, what is it you plan to do?”

The other Jedi had already turned his back on Obi-Wan, and was headed for the entrance to the hall. Without looking back, he replied, “What I have to, Kenobi.”

The door slammed closed behind him. With no other sound to mask it, the echo haunted the hall for a long time.

Obi-Wan looked down at the plinth to his right. The saber there was wrapped in leather, the handgrip cracked and hardened with age. A jagged tear ran through the material on the side nearest him, exposing the metal beneath.  _ Funny,  _ he thought, again possessed by a perverse urge to pick the weapon up.  _ Its owner must have been young when they died, if they were killed in battle. Now the only thing that’s left of them is this.  _ A relic, in the company of other relics, any use it once had gone long ago.

_ None of what you told him was a lie,  _ he told himself, watching the saber gleam in the faint light of the hall.  _ Anakin wouldn’t do it. _

_ Are you saying that because you mean it?  _ something whispered back.  _ Or because you don’t want Anakin to choose between you and the chancellor? _

Rather than trying to smother the thought, Obi-Wan just let it go. He didn’t have the luxury of arguing with himself right now.

He had a watch to take.

* * *

**_JEDI ARCHIVES: CONCERNING THE CONTINUED PURSUIT OF THE SITH LORD MAUL_ **

_ [excerpt from the dissenting opinion, authored by Master Luminara Unduli, for a Jedi Council vote concerning the Order’s effort to defeat the Sith called Darth Maul]  _

Have we all forgotten that Maul leads the war we’ve so selfishly recalled our Knights from? That perhaps, rather than repeatedly throwing away Jedi lives on this hunt for a single Sith Lord, we’d have a better chance of encountering and defeating Maul by returning those Knights to the fight against his Confederacy? 

Beyond that, I cannot help but feel there is a better option. To date we have only fought Maul in mutually unfamiliar territory—or worse, in places he calls home. The Sith seek to destroy the Jedi, do they not? Let him come to us. We stand a far better chance of defeating a Sith Lord on our own terms, here in the Jedi Temple, united as a whole Order. 

Therefore I put forth a motion to abandon this myopic pursuit of Darth Maul and instead shore up our defenses here at home while returning our Knights and Healers to the war. We may yet accomplish our goal of destroying the Sith—but more importantly, this returns us to a place of assisting a galaxy in need. Is that not our charge as Jedi?

_ [Archivist’s note: Master Unduli’s motion was voted down in Council] _


	5. Her Hidden Image (Part I: Among Ruins)

One of the few things Padmé had unabashedly loved about the apartment when she and Anakin had moved in was the view. Living on Coruscant had never quite stopped feeling vaguely  _ off _ to her—as someone who’d grown up on a planet full of farmland and open sky, the knowledge that the only greenery anywhere on this planet was artificial had prickled her skin like a rash. But at sunset, when its metal spires were set ablaze by reflected light and the sky they pierced turned orange, it was like she lived in the middle of a place from some distant fairytale. Often, when she and Anakin had run out of things to say to each other in the evening, they would simply sit together on the patio and watch as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The view was still there, but her access to it wasn’t. Flimsiboard sheets had been hastily set up in place of the sliding glass window that opened to the veranda, which had been shattered by a stray blast of plasma a few days into the battle. There was no way of telling whether it had been a Confederate ship taking a potshot at their building or a Republic craft trying to shoot an enemy down. Either way, Padmé kept throwing glances at the board now, part of her convinced another shot would tear through it at any time. Every now and then she’d think of stepping out onto the patio, only to remember they didn’t have one anymore—it had vanished entirely when the blast hit it, crumbling to the street miles below.

Liz, Padmé thought, would have been amused. In her fouler moods the droid had done her best to give the impression of rolling her eyes whenever her two owners had gazed out at the skyline. “ _ You organics. Nothing about that view has changed in centuries! They’re all the same buildings! Take a picture and you’ll have it forever! _ ”

Padmé snorted faintly.  _ Gods damn it, Liz. If you’d left me more  _ good _ memories I wouldn’t have to have crap like this running through my head. _

The droid hadn’t left much of anything. Shattered glass, smoldering carpet, and a gaping hole where the veranda had used to be—where  _ she’d  _ been, claiming she needed some space from the two humans after being cooped up for days on end. Padmé and Anakin had been in the kitchen halfheartedly preparing dinner by candlelight to avoid being interrupted by the rolling blackouts—the backwash from the blast had knocked both of them off their feet like a hot hand pressing down on them.

As soon as Padmé had recovered, she’d sprinted for the veranda, stopping just short of falling off the sheer drop, bellowing Liz’s name. When that hadn’t worked, she’d started pinging the droid’s built-in comm, simply hitting her own comm’s call button over and over like she had when they were stuck in Had Abbadon’s caves and it was the only way to get a signal out. She hadn’t stopped doing it while she and Anakin searched the street immediately below the building, ducking into cover every now and then to avoid rescue personnel and soldiers.

“ _ Maybe she went to the  _ Dancer _ , _ ” Padmé had finally said after they’d both exhausted any possibility that the droid could be in the vicinity. “ _ Made it to the ground, saw how things were heating up around here, and decided to hole up there in case the building got hit again. _ ”

The look Anakin had given her was one she recognized—so often it was  _ her _ giving it to  _ him _ , her eyes communicating how stupid his latest wild hope was. But he hadn’t said anything. Instead, the two of them had broken curfew and booked it to the warehouse in the Works, snuck their way around its security system, and broken into their own ship. Nothing.

Collapsed on one of the galley chairs, Anakin had looked at her and blown out a long breath. “ _ Bail’s office, maybe? _ ”

In that moment, she’d loved him. Wanted more than anything to hug him as tightly as she could, just sit there and hold him. But then her mind had flitted back to their apartment, where a gaping hole still opened to the air. 

“ _ We have to go back, _ ” she’d said, pushing up from the table. “ _ Board things up before looters get to our stuff. _ ”

Maybe she’d known then, subconsciously, even before they found it as they were putting up the boards—a single finger from Liz’s left hand, charred black, wires splaying out of one end.

Before Anakin could stop her, she’d chucked it at the ground below. “ _ Gods-damned idiot hunk of junk, wandering outside in the middle of a warzone. _ ”

She’d thought that getting rid of the finger meant getting rid of everything Liz had left behind. But today, with nothing else to do, she’d been cleaning the place, aimlessly moving and rearranging junk. It was when she decided  _ Screw it _ and started shifting her and Anakin’s bed into a new spot that she’d seen it—a square of carpet, in the middle of the area the bed had covered up, that had a faint gap carved between it and the rest of the floor.

Cautiously, she’d bent down and peeled it back. And now, a few minutes later, here she was, scoffing to herself as she sifted through the box of stuff the droid had hidden away under their noses in their own damn bedroom.

Padmé reflexively jerked her hand backward when she saw the faint blue glow of memory lichen, only to realize it was safely stored in a tiny glass vial.  _ Lucky she was never serious when she talked about screwing us over. All she’d have had to do was stick that against our necks and we’d’ve been out while she made off with the cashbox.  _ For a moment, a part of her wanted to uncork the vial and brush her finger against the wisp of fungus, experience whatever memory Liz had encoded in it—then she remembered that, no matter how developed her personality, the droid had  _ not _ been capable of imprinting anything on the flake of lichen. Whoever had left the memory had done so a long time ago—the droid had just swiped it from a cavern wall, or someone in the refugee camp. Best to leave it be.

Next in the pile was a much larger glass cylinder, one that sloshed with a deep burgundy liquid. There was a label around the base; Padmé raised it to the light to read it and then let out a snort of laughter.  _ Theed Paddocks, Palpatine Proprietor,  _ it read in a florid script. “You sneaky bitch,” she said aloud, rolling the bottle back and forth and listening to the shifting wine within. “What, you bribe Ellis to lift this for you?”

She lifted similar mementos from the hideaway one by one. Some Huttese coin worth next to nothing in the Core systems; the ruined stump of the droid’s old right arm, which Anakin had finished “borrowing” only for Liz to inform him she’d sooner go one-handed than use again; one of the Flamewind globes Oseon sold to tourists, filled with torrents of sand until you turned it to the right angle and the light caught shades of boreal colors. Gods only knew where the droid had kept this stuff before she had a convenient floor to hide it under; some cranny of the  _ Dancer _ , Padmé supposed.

Maybe, she thought, looking at the assortment of junk sitting on her floor, she and her husband could split the bottle of wine next time they were both home for dinner. Add some spice to the camp-stove main course, toast to their erstwhile friend’s memory. If he asked where she got it from, she could lie and say Bail had given it to her.  _ Stolen wine, cooking over a crappy fire . . . just like old times, almost. _

Except that in old times it had been just the two of them, camping out or on the run, stuck together whether they liked it or not. Nowadays she was lucky to get through a meal without Anakin getting called away by some duty he claimed was vital for holding the planet together.

_ It’s not fair, _ she’d said to him a ways back, before all this happened.  _ I’m the head of Bail’s security and I still manage to keep a normal schedule. Palpatine has you busier than you were on the gods-damned front lines! _

_ Bail runs one planet,  _ he’d shot back,  _ not exactly by choice. The Chancellor runs the galaxy.  _ She hadn’t been ready to start a fight for the sole point of defending her boss’s honor, so she’d just let it go.

Sighing, she rolled the bottle of wine toward the nearest wall a little more forcefully than necessary—it hit the barrier with a loud  _ thunk _ , mercifully refusing to shatter all over the carpet. The light coming in through the window was just enough to catch the name  _ Palpatine _ sitting at the crest of the label. With a scowl, Padmé gave it the finger. Maybe drinking it was the wrong call after all. Maybe she’d throw it out the hole in her apartment. With any luck it would land on the head of one of the Chancellor’s new Grand Army as they patrolled the street below.

As for everything else . . . probably best to just put it back where it had come from, shift the bed back on top to cover it up.  _ Let’s just make sure we’ve seen everything,  _ she thought, and reached back in to sweep her hand around the compartment.

_ Huh.  _ There was one more thing inside, something blocky and plastic. When Padmé pulled it to the light, she frowned. It was a tape unit—an  _ old _ one, judging from the wear along the edges and the dent just above one of its spools. There was no text of any kind on the outer case’s label, but as she tilted it through the sunlight she saw that something had scratched an Aurebesh numeral into the casing— _ 2. _

_ Well, that means there’s gotta be a 1, then.  _ And sure enough, when she felt along the bottom of the compartment a second hunk of plastic brushed against her fingertips. This one was slightly worse for wear than its counterpart—the tape within was spooled a little loosely, and a crack spidered its way along one side.

“So what’re you?” she said aloud, running her thumbs along the ridges and indentations. Liz didn’t seem the type to store music on analog. For a moment Padmé’s pulse surged a little—maybe it was some kind of last message in case anything happened—but then she rolled her eyes. There was no way in hell irritable Liz would leave something like that, and sweet Liz didn’t seem like the type to think much about her own death.  _ Hell, maybe it’s coordinates for the loot from a bank robbery or something _ .

It had been a long time since Padmé had played one of these things, but Anakin, she knew, had a tape reader in his workbench. Rising to her feet with a groan—her knees were getting sore a little too soon these days for her liking—she headed for the living room, where he’d set up shop in a corner shortly after they’d moved in. As she passed the boarded-up window, she willed herself not to speed up her pace.

Buried in the bottom drawer was the reader, itself rather battered—Padmé noticed with a wince that a couple of the spokes had broken off. Popping open the hatch, she slowly rotated the wheels with her thumb—they still seemed to turn properly, at any rate. She raised the gadget to her face, blew to clear out any dust, and then gently slid in Tape 1. For a moment it caught on one of the damaged spokes, but then the spools snapped into place.

She closed the hatch and looked down. The tape looked back, almost expectantly, the two spokes giving the strangely offputting impression of two eyes.

_ Welp, let’s hear it.  _ With a  _ click _ , she pressed play.

For several moments there was nothing but the burbling hiss of static, the tape popping and clicking with imperfections. Then, with a sudden crackle, words became audible, and Padmé swallowed.

“ _. . . been a long day, for all of us. Not that I can tire myself out the same way living beings can, of course. _ ” Silence, for several moments. Then: “ _ Yes, Miss Padmé? _ ”

She swore and punched the stop button before it could go any further, at the same time throwing a look over her shoulder as though expecting the droid to be right behind her.

Memories. These were Liz’s memories.

Of course it made sense. Backup tapes were fairly common. If your droid’s brain was irreparably damaged, you could just port their backup into a new chassis and have them back—up to the time the tape was last updated. The magnetic storage was efficient enough to keep a whole robot stored in one casing—but of course, Liz  _ hadn’t  _ been one robot, not entirely. Which explained the pair.

Under other circumstances, maybe it might have provided some closure. But hearing the droid’s voice  _ now _ , not even two weeks after she’d gone—and  _ especially  _ hearing it address her by name . . . it was like a spectre had showed up in her living room. Especially since that hadn’t been any sort of last testament—it was a  _ conversation _ between the two of them. If she listened long enough, maybe she’d begin to recall what it had been about. Hear herself in the pauses. Two ghosts talking to each other.

Shuddering and swearing again, she punched at the eject button, extricated the tape, and tossed the reader back into the workbench as though it might burn her.

“Okay,” she said aloud to herself—the silence in the apartment had been tainted, as though it were pregnant with an unseen presence. “So what do I  _ do _ with you?”

Anakin, she knew, would march right down to the nearest droid dealer and buy a new chassis. Plug the tapes into it, spit whatever data was inside them into the empty brain, and fire it up in the hopes that when he spoke to it Liz would speak back. And maybe when she’d been searching frantically for any sign of the droid, willing her to appear on the street or at the  _ Dancer _ , Padmé would have felt the same way. But now, the thought of an unfamiliar metal face lighting up, turning to her, and saying her name in a voice that was Liz’s and wasn’t gave her the damned creeps. Besides, she didn’t even know if entering two personalities into a single brain would even  _ work _ —Liz’s brain had been cobbled together from parts, a special kind of broken that a factory-issue processor probably couldn’t handle.

But he wouldn’t listen to her if she brought that up. He’d insist there was a way to do it. And when that didn’t work, he’d spend gods knew how many months hacking into the not-Liz, trying to make it the way it was.

And she’d love him for it. But there were some things you just couldn’t fix.

_ So get rid of them. Do what you wanted to do with the wine. _

She walked over to the boarded-up hole, wind whistling faintly through a place where she and Anakin hadn’t sealed a seam quite perfectly. If she stuck her fingers in that slit and pulled back on the flimsiboard, she could lean in closer and look down through the nothingness where the patio had been—down the barrel of the building toward the street miles below. She saw herself pushing the tapes through that crack, then letting go—they’d plunge out of sight in the blink of an eye, hurtling to terminal velocity before the pavement shattered them into constellations of fragmented plastic. Liz’s ghost splayed out along the duracrete, the magnetic contours of her brain getting trod on or corroded by rain and time.

An end to it. No more lingering maybes.

_ I could use more endings in my life right now,  _ she thought.

And stepped away from the window.

The wine, the lichen, the globe, all the little knick-knacks and pilfered treasures, she returned to the hole in the floor. Gently lowered the carved-out square of carpet back into place. Shifted the bed back into its former position. Maybe she’d tell Anakin about them when he got home. Maybe she’d just leave them there, away from prying eyes, like Liz had wanted.

The tapes, she decided, could go on the  _ Dancer _ next time she could make it out there without breaking curfew. Despite Liz’s complaining, Padmé couldn’t help but think the droid had always liked the ship better than the respectable residences she and her owners had wound up living in. They could stay there, until she’d decided what to do with them.

Maybe they and the ship would just stay there in that warehouse, together, old relics gathering dust.

As Padmé slid the memories into her dresser drawer for now, she couldn’t decide if the thought was sad, or somehow comforting.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: DROID PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT** _

Droids that spend a significant amount of time around sentient beings are known to develop behavior patterns akin to independent personalities. These personalities can be erased with a simple factory reset memory wipe. However, if a droid is factory reset and then goes a significant amount of time without another memory wipe, the personality that forms will not entirely match the droid’s previous one. The most commonly held hypothesis for the cause of this divergence suggests a combination of environmental factors and extremely minor variations in droid hardware are to blame.

The most controversial study of droid personality development involved researchers interacting with droids in highly controlled, isolated environments. Through repeated memory wipes and identical sets of stimuli, the researchers attempted to create the same personality in a droid multiple times over. The experiment was shut down prior to completion due to ethical concerns raised by synthetic rights groups, who believe that droids are sentient beings and thus fall under the protections of Republic law concerning treatment of citizens. 

Shortly after, a similar experiment was started outside the borders of Republic space. Its results have not been made available to the Galactic Republic scientific community. 


	6. A Grand Army (Part I: Among Ruins)

_ It’s the hand of God. _

That was the thought that had coursed through Bail Organa’s head when he glimpsed the  _ Charybdis _ shrieking across the Coruscant sky—before he’d known it  _ was _ the  _ Charybdis _ . The size and speed of it had been too much for his naked eye to process; as the burning hulk roared through the atmosphere, shattering windows in its wake, all he’d known was that it was an angel of death, headed for the heart of Coruscant. The heart of the Republic.

The Senate building.

After that one sentence had uttered itself in his head, all coherent thought had vanished. His body had vibrated with the animal urge to flee, to hide himself under the nearest desk, but he’d been paralyzed, his legs refusing to run and his eyes refusing to turn themselves from the window of the Senatorial Apartments where the politicians and their staffs had barricaded themselves when the shooting started. He’d watched the whole thing. He’d watched as the  _ Charybdis _ clipped a building, then another, its blazing hull tearing a ragged trench through Capitol Plaza as it headed toward its ultimate target. There had been a terrible grinding of metal on stone, one he still wasn’t sure had been real—surely he couldn’t have heard it from miles away, surely it must have been in his imagination. It had sounded as though the ship were crying out its own death scream.

And then it had plowed into the side of the Senate dome, buckling it like so much cardboard, and Bail had breathed again.

He’d only noticed the cuts hours later, after the adrenaline in his system had finally begun to dissipate—lacerations from transparisteel shards that had peppered him after the window he’d watched the whole thing through exploded. In the moment, he’d felt no pain, simply an overwhelming, apocalyptic certainty that he was going to die.

He still saw it when he closed his eyes—nights were worst of all, but it happened during the day too. He’d blink, and the empty hull of the  _ Charybdis _ would sear across the backs of his eyelids—

“Bail?”

Hastily, he wrenched himself back to the present moment, turning to his head of security. “Sorry, what?”

“I was just saying at least there’s some fresh air in here now,” said Padmé, gesturing to encompass the whole of their surroundings.

Before Bail could stop himself, a choked laugh escaped his throat. Padmé had a point—the vast shaft of actual sunlight pouring in through the missing wall was almost too perfect, and even though a protective shield had hastily been generated across the gap in the building, he could almost swear he felt a breeze waft through the chamber every now and then. “Maybe Valis missed her calling as an architect.”

Excavation of the  _ Charybdis _ had begun almost immediately after the shock of watching the capital ship rip a wound through Capitol Plaza. Starships were not stable at the best of times—besides weapon systems and shield generators and any number of other delicate components, they were also laden with hyperfuel, one of the most unstable substances in existence. Take all that and throw it at a planet’s crust at ramming speed, and you’d basically created a bomb that could go off at any time. It was a miracle that the cruiser hadn’t detonated the instant it plowed into the Senate dome—leaving it there was simply asking for trouble.

And, Bail Organa had to admit, the excavation crews had done an admirably speedy job. Where just five days ago a dagger a kilometer long had been embedded in the Senate’s side, now there was simply a gaping hole opening onto the wrecked plaza, its edges charred but no longer burning. He’d watched the construction droids and manned vehicles from the same window he’d watched the ship crash, slicing apart the corpse piece by piece and carrying it away.

Under the circumstances, it was ludicrous for a special session of the Senate to be taking place in the dome. It was a good thing they had the sunlight, because one thing the engineers had  _ not _ been punctual about was restoring power to the building. The rotunda’s already dim atmosphere would have been complete blackness without the daylight streaming in, forming a natural spotlight of sorts across the center of the chamber. Had it been an evening session, no one would have been able to find their pod. Any reasonable person would have ordered all senators home to conduct governing remotely.

Chancellor Palpatine’s concerns, Bail supposed, extended beyond the reasonable.

“This is exactly what he wants, of course,” he muttered to Padmé, taking care that there were no dronecams passing by to record the conversation. “The Senate putting ourselves in danger as guardians of the Republic, him in the lead as our Courageous Commander-in-Chief. Optics couldn’t be more perfect. He’s even got his own natural spotlight.”

“Anakin would say it’s a brave gesture,” she replied—Bail didn’t think she quite realized the level of sarcasm she’d allowed to leak into her voice. “Putting himself in harm’s way to show he’s not above us common folk.”

“And what do  _ you _ say?” he asked.

A cloud passed over her face. Before she could reply, however, a new voice sounded behind him. “Mind if I join you? It seems Chandrila’s pod was . . . well, caught in the crossfire, as they say.”

Mon Mothma sounded vaguely ill as she said it, but Bail chuckled anyway, turning and rising to shake her hand. “Plenty of room, and we could use a third to get us through . . . well, whatever’s about to happen.”

Secretly, he found himself a bit relieved that Padmé wouldn’t have to answer his question. She and Anakin were . . . not his business, and lord knew he himself wasn’t an ideal husband at the best of times. Even before the attack had trapped him and every other senator on the planet—stranded them beneath the planetary shield, then holed them up with their security teams in their improvised fortress—he hadn’t seen Breha in months, and had only called sporadically. Their conversations during the siege had been unbearable, each of them alternating between trying to keep up a normal front and telling the other how much they wished they could  _ do _ something. Holocall after holocall had danced around the thought coursing through Bail’s mind:  _ If we lose, I’ll die here on this planet without ever seeing her again. _

Much of the siege had already faded into a dissociative blur for him—endless days of pacing his apartment, trying to keep distracted, ducking away from windows whenever a suspicious shadow passed by. Padmé popping out to go home and try to see her husband, then returning a few hours later looking just as dejected as he felt. Endless, awful ration meals after the blackouts started rolling through the upper districts. And the calls to Breha, multiple a day at first but gradually thinning.  _ As if she was scared to call me,  _ he thought to himself, not for the first time.  _ That I wouldn’t pick up and she’d know I was dead.  _ He’d had the thought, after a few days of this, that it wasn’t all that different from how things had been before the siege, and hated himself for it.

After the crash, he’d spent hours trying to contact Breha, dialing over and over to no avail—every single inhabitant of Coruscant had been trying to reach their own loved ones, and succeeded only in crashing the network. It had been nearly a full day before he was able to get a brief message through to her— _ I’m okay,  _ he’d sobbed into the microphone,  _ it’s all right, I’m okay _ , the signal cutting out before she could reply.

And now here he was, unable to go home to see her before one last meeting of Congress was over. Bail knew it was childish to feel personally affronted—Palpatine hadn’t scheduled a special session of the Senate on Coruscant just to delay his heading home—but he still felt an urge to work his way close to the man and grab him by the neck.

Again he pulled himself back to the present, where Mon was expressing her polite relief that no one Padmé knew had been hurt in the attacks. Bail winced inwardly—there was no way to explain to her that Liz had been more than just a droid to his friend—but for once Padmé seemed to be sidestepping confrontation, simply nodding and turning her attention to the central podium. “You’d think he’d be able to show up to his own speech on time,” she said. “He’s two minutes late.”

Mon nodded, her coppery hair gleaming as a passing dronecam caught it. “He does appreciate the importance of a good entrance. Keep us waiting just enough for us to notice, and then—”

As if on cue, a sudden swell of applause sounded from across the chamber, then fanned out to encompass the whole rotunda. Bail found himself putting his own hands together out of reflex, then shoved them down at his sides with a grimace as he saw what had elicited the noise.

Palpatine rose into view, a small hover platform beneath his feet. When the platform was level with the central podium, the chancellor released the railing and gingerly stepped onto his usual position, the shaft of sunlight from outside catching his face perfectly. The applause rose louder at the image; Palpatine raised a hand in half-hearted protest, but did nothing further to quell clapping from all sides of the rotunda. At Bail’s right, Padmé rolled her eyes; at his left, Mon simply gnawed delicately at her lower lip.

Bail himself, for a moment, felt a curious sensation watching the chancellor stand there at the center of the chamber, bathed in the light that pierced the Senate the way the  _ Charybdis _ had days earlier. Alone in that spotlight, a charred, gaping hole yawning to his right, Palpatine looked . . . small. Vulnerable.

For an absurd instant, Bail remembered what he had felt when a war had landed in his lap. When Obi-Wan had gone missing, and he’d had no one to turn to. For the briefest moment, he felt an involuntary stirring of sympathy beneath his breast. He felt . . .  _ sorry _ for Palpatine.

At last the applause stilled. Palpatine raised his head, and looked around the chamber in a slow, continuous movement. “My friends,” he said aloud, the words a murmur that nevertheless rang across the rotunda with the aid of an invisible microphone. “First of all—it is a relief to see all of you here, safe and sound.

“I am sure all of you are wondering why I’ve requested your presence here, of all places, for this special session before officially opening up shield passage once more and allowing you all to return to your homes.” A distant smile passed across his face, like that of a man seeing a cherished memory pass before his eyes. “I myself have not been to Naboo in some time. Now more than ever, it would be a comfort to me to return there.”

The smile passed, the tender note falling once more into solemnity. “But we must all remind ourselves that home is more than the planet on which we were born. Home is not the system, the sector, the rim which we call our own. All of us—regardless of species or strata—call this Republic our home. The attack that struck at this world—at this Senate”—here he paused to look significantly at the breach in the dome’s wall—“was a violation of our home. And while we here were privileged to survive it, many citizens of Coruscant were not so lucky.” To his right, Bail heard Padmé’s breathing grow a touch faster.

Raising his hand once more, Palpatine asked, “If you would, my friends and colleagues—a moment of silence for those who paid the ultimate price against tyranny.”

The resulting quiet was indeed a true silence—in the absence of power, the only ambient noise Bail could hear was his fellow senators breathing, or the occasional cough. He closed his eyes, and once again images of the crash’s aftermath flashed before them—now, he remembered the numbness that had come over him as he watched the Senate burn, the faint ringing that had pulsed through his ears and dulled other sounds as though they were being muffled by cotton. It was funny, really—he’d spent so long trying to call Breha, and when he’d finally gotten through it had taken him a moment to notice because her voice had struggled to pierce the buffer and reach his ears. He’d worried about hearing damage, but the med droid who’d bandaged his cuts had assured him there was nothing wrong with his ears. The dull tinnitus ring had faded, but he found himself worrying that, like the afterimages of the crash, it would come back whether he wanted it to or not.

When Palpatine spoke again it sliced through the silence like a blade—Mon actually jumped a little. “It is to that end,” he said, “that I have called this special session of Congress.”

There was a sudden hardness to his voice that immediately dispelled the sympathy Bail had felt for him just minutes earlier. It reminded him of when the the two of them had met just before the emergency election that had put Palpatine at this podium—of the way the other man had gone from smug to quietly dangerous within a sentence.

_ I don’t want to know where this goes,  _ he thought, and listened anyway.

“Our response to this attack on our democracy—on our very existence—was neither efficient nor effective,” said Palpatine. His tone had gone clinical—there was no anger there, but the lack of his usual affectation of fatherly warmth was almost alarming to those who were used to it. “Coruscant’s intelligence did not detect the ships and personnel that the Confederacy smuggled into the atmosphere for months prior to the attack, person by person, unit by unit. Nor were its orbital defenses able to repel the unexpected force thrown at them. When reinforcements were called, they were scattered and uncoordinated in their response. While the Defense Force beat back the Confederacy, it did so at a cost that was unacceptably high.”

And then all at once it was the Palpatine everyone knew once more—his voice weary, exhausted, grieved, as he relayed that cost. “It was not only civilians who suffered in this attack. There are many heroes of the Defense Force we can now honor only in death. And of those who survive, too few do so unscathed.”

Again Bail found his thoughts flitting away, not to the crash this time but to several days later—to a bed in one of the central district hospitals that were crowded to overflowing. At his side had been faces he knew only distantly—Karin Janzen and Sam Reyes, grasping each other’s hands and swaying slightly back and forth—and one he’d not seen in far too long—Obi-Wan Kenobi, himself looking rather shell-shocked.

On the bed itself lay Temeura Cody, commander of Typhoon Division, his body broken.

“ _ I don’t remember it happening, _ ” Reyes had said in a distant voice; she herself was still recovering from a concussion, she’d explained to Bail when he’d arrived at the hospital room and asked the others if they were all right. “ _ We were fighting it out with the  _ Charybdis _ and there was a collision alert and then . . . it all just went black. And when I woke up . . . he was lying there on the deck. _ ”

Underneath bedsheets and bandages it had been hard to see the extent of the damage Cody had taken, but Bail had been informed of it in detail when Typhoon Division contacted him, just a few hours before the  _ Charybdis _ had turned itself into a missile. Shrapnel had pierced most of his lower body, including the base of his spine. Odds were he’d live—med droids were only getting better as the war dragged on and more and more injured troops poured into triage centers—but he wouldn’t walk. “ _ Not unless there’s a miracle, _ ” said Karin, as she relayed to Bail the trauma report he’d already heard days ago. He hadn’t interrupted; he’d simply nodded, and looked down at the commander’s motionless body.

“ _ I’m so sorry, _ ” Obi-Wan had said—perhaps to Karin and Reyes, perhaps to Cody. He’d been staring at the latter, hands clasped tightly behind his back, fingers twitching every few seconds. “ _ I should have . . . I’m so sorry. _ ”

“ _ Don’t say that, General Kenobi, _ ” Reyes had said, shaking her head and then wincing at the motion. Raising a hand to her forehead, she’d exhaled slowly and added, “ _ He’d be glad that you’re safe. We all are. _ ”

The Jedi had met Reyes’s eyes and given a sad smile. “ _ Just Obi-Wan, please, Sam. I haven’t been a general in a long time now. _ ”

Padmé swore softly under her breath, drawing a look of mild consternation from Mon Mothma—Bail, conscious of the fact that he’d missed something, hastily leaned over to her and whispered, “What?”

“Oh, just wait,” she hissed back, her eyes stonily fixed on the central podium.

Palpatine was continuing off a point Bail had missed. “. . . clearly shows that Coruscant was not a unique failure, but rather the culmination of weaknesses inherent to our defenses. For too long the Defense Force has been forced to serve not as a unit, but as a patchwork. As I have argued to this august body time and again, we do not have a Republic Defense Force in anything but name. We have untold hundreds of systems who arm and command their own troops and fleets, who fly under the banner of the republic but carry their homeworlds first in their hearts. My friends— _ this. Cannot. Continue. _ ”

_ Oh.  _ Bail felt a sudden tightness in his chest.  _ This is not going anywhere good. _

Palpatine’s voice rang out now, filling the rotunda. “As long as we see ourselves as many and not one—as long as we continue to view other systems as neighbors rather than brothers and sisters—we will never truly be a Republic. As long as the needs of the many are subject to the whims and prejudices of the few, we will never truly be a Republic.”

Dead quiet once more filled the dome, but it was not the reverent silence of a few minutes before. It was hushed anticipation, as though everyone were nervous to breathe and derail wherever the chancellor was heading next. To Bail’s right, Padmé gripped the railing of their Senate pod; Mon Mothma was pale and motionless.

“We must put aside our regional interests, our infighting, our petty squabbles,” said Palpatine, turning slowly to address the entire chamber in turn. “When the Confederacy strikes at a Republic world, they strike at all of us. When the Confederacy attacks us at the very heart of our civilization”—and here he thrust an arm at the gaping hole in the side of the dome, at the view of Capitol Plaza and its wreckage beyond—“they have attacked us to the furthest reaches of our space. And when they attack our territories in the Outer Rim, it is no different than when they drive a stake into the heart of this Senate.”

It was as though a dam had burst. A torrent of applause swept through the rotunda, and again Bail felt a reflexive pull to join in. Willing his hands to stay down, he narrowed his eyes to get a better look at the chancellor’s face.

It was his imagination, of course. He was too far away to see anything clearly. But beneath the surface resolve, he could swear Palpatine looked smug.

As the roar of claps quieted, the chancellor stayed silent for a moment. Then, looking upward, he said:

“This body must do all it can to project its citizens. We must all put planetary loyalties aside and act as one. It is in the interest of this that I will be using the authority invested in my office by wartime powers to dissolve the Republic Defense Force. In its place we shall create a Grand Army of the Republic.

“All member worlds shall contribute to this Grand Army according to their ability, and will be aided according to their need. The forces they contribute to the Republic will not be theirs—they will answer not to regional authorities but to this government. But neither will our member worlds be without defenses. This motion ensures a military that is  _ unified _ , of  _ one purpose _ , that will be able to act  _ swiftly and effectively _ . When one member world is threatened, it will be as if Coruscant herself were threatened. And we shall deal with that threat accordingly.

“Together,” he said, raising his voice to a sonorous height, “this new Grand Army of the Republic will work hand in hand with this Senate to ensure Safety!

“Security!

“Justice!

“And Peace!”

There was a split second of indecision. A moment where Bail thought wildly that things might go another way—that there would be jeers, protests, cries that the executive had overstepped his authority.

And then the room exploded.

Applause crested as though it were a wave hundreds of feet high. It sounded as though it were right beside Bail—and then he looked to his left and saw that Mon was clapping with the rest.

“Mon,” he shouted over the din, “what are you  _ doing— _ ”

“Clap, both of you,” she shouted back, throwing a glance at Padmé as well. “The cameras are watching.”

And indeed, dronecams were darting back and forth across the chamber, swooping up to individual pods to capture reactions. Bail felt himself begin to put his hands together, raising them just high enough above the pod railing that they could be seen. Padmé, whose own hands had been resting in her lap, shot him and Mon both a glare and then crossed her arms.

Later—when he’d clapped long enough and with enough fervor that his palms were sore—Bail watched Palpatine give a tired smile, then sigh, face sobering. A dronecam swept downward til it was hovering only a couple of meters from the chancellor’s face; looking into its lens, Palpatine said:

“Lastly, I speak to the brave beings of the Defense Force. Know that I am not asking you to abandon your worlds, your loved ones, your homes. I would no more ask that of you than I would ask myself to forget Naboo. This is not the rejection of one home, but the embrace of another—one that will be with you wherever you go across the galaxy. The Republic owes you a debt we can never repay—but I hope that we can start here, by making the galaxy a safer place for its citizens and for you to do your work.”

Bail thought of Cody, waking up in a hospital bed to find his legs couldn’t move, then looking up and watching this address on a holoscreen. He clenched his fists hard enough for his nails to bite into his palms.

“And with that, my friends and colleagues,” said Palpatine, his voice no longer ringing outward but forming the fatherly tones the galaxy knew so well, “we take our leave of each other. Some of us, to return to our constituencies; others of us, to remain here and rebuild. May we next meet in a restored Senate, on a restored Coruscant, to bring peace to a restored Republic—and to the galaxy.

“I bid you all a very fond farewell.”

Bail didn’t wait for the farewell applause to finish. Turning to Mon, he leaned close enough for her to hear his whisper. “Don’t go to Chandrila. Come to Alderaan.”

“What?” she asked, her voice startled to a volume much higher than his own.

Pulling back, Bail fixed his eyes on hers. “Breha,” he said slowly, “would love to finally meet you.”

After a moment, she nodded, understanding crystallizing in her eyes.

He pivoted to his head of security. “Padmé,” he said, “lock up the office for me, would you? And then take a few days off. Be with Anakin. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

Padmé’s inherent irritation at being told what to do seemed to be blunted by confusion. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I’m letting Raymus know to get the  _ Sundered Heart _ ready for takeoff,” he told her, casting one last look at the central podium—where Palpatine stood, basking in his reception. “I’m not staying here a second longer.”

As he turned and swept out of the rotunda, echoing claps followed him. 

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: REGARDING THE STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY OF THE SENATE ROTUNDA** _

_ [excerpt from a memorandum sent to the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, from the desk of the Architect of the Capitol Complex] _

Unlike the secure shelter connected to the Executive Residence, the Senate Rotunda was never designed to survive a direct orbital strike. The use of a capital ship as a projectile, though highly unusual and rather barbaric, undoubtedly places a similar amount of stress on the building’s structure. 

Frankly, we are shocked the “Dome,” as it is often called, withstood the impact as well as it did. Nevertheless, the impact of the  _ Charybdis  _ caused untold structural damage. The fires that burned in the wake of the crash were not extinguished for several hours, weakening critical support latticework that keeps the Dome aloft. 

A proper safety evaluation would take a team of advisors several days to complete. The needed repairs to make the Senate Rotunda structurally sound may require months of work. The timeline you have put forth for this special session is simply too hurried. We cannot in good conscience condone an onsite convening of the Galactic Senate, and strongly urge you to consider an alternate location or a virtual gathering.


	7. From the Ashes (Part I: Among Ruins)

A lone woman stood among fallen titans—starships long since cast aside, the headstones in a graveyard of Valis’ past life. 

Each step through the valley of metal crunched underfoot, flakes of oxidized durasteel wafting the scent of rust through the air—it was so thick it seemed to coat the back of her tongue with each breath. Some ships, the freshest arrivals, had yet to be overtaken by the unrelenting creep of corrosion. Some had clearly sat amongst the junk pile so long they were hardly recognizable as former space vessels—they were like the wrecks of ancient sailing ships beneath the ocean black, the deepness of their rot transfiguring them into something alien. 

The pirates called it the Scrapyard. 

A literal mountain of starship husks extended out in all directions beneath Valis’ feet—when she’d first laid eyes upon it, standing back in the space pirate sanctuary port of San Sestina, she had hardly believed the sheer scale of the metal pyre rising from the horizon. A few of the pirates told tales of the deepest recesses of the Scrapyard, of the ships that made up its foundation and the creatures that still lurked within them. 

Most just used the place as a free source of spare parts. 

Exhaling, Valis felt the smell of corrosion tickle her nose as the breath escaped her. That, she thought, was the thing she’d missed the most about working with pirates. No one was after the biggest slice of this quarter’s profits, or the next promotion up the corporate ladder. Everyone got their fair share, and whatever remained after that was free for the taking. 

A glance over her shoulder brought the port city into view. Ramshackle buildings rose from the rocky outcroppings that jutted up against the shoreline, the pavement of the streets chiseled out of the very stone that formed the town’s foundation. Caves set into the jagged cliffs—some born naturally over centuries of erosion, others formed within minutes via the strategic placement of blasting caps—housed ships of all shapes and sizes. Waves lapped the shore; the water was a drab grey, and an oily sheen glistened out from between bits of floating scrap. 

The city itself was alive that evening, fireworks blooming over the rooftops. The joyful notes of music echoed from the taverns, a drunken vocal accompaniment audible even at this distance. San Sestina remained one of the few places a space pirate could find refuge—to repair their ship, rest their head, and lick their wounds after another attempt at galactic wealth redistribution. Valis had chosen to recuse herself from these particular celebrations—though the pirates had certainly earned them, there was yet work to be done. Attacking Coruscant had only been the beginning. 

Ducking beneath the spine of a rusted-out windskimmer, she ran her fingertips along the hull of the vessel beside her. Flecks of paint and ash came away as she pulled back her hand—the ship was far from the oldest vessel in the Scrapyard, but it certainly wasn’t the newest arrival. 

“ _ Fractured Iris _ ,” said a voice that sounded not unlike the crunch of the rust beneath her boots. __

The voice made her jump, if only slightly, and sent a hand rocketing down to the lightsaber hanging from her belt. She stopped the motion almost as quickly as she’d begun it, though, as her brain caught up with the sounds she’d just heard and reminded her who was speaking them. 

Darth Maul stood just at the edge of her peripheral vision, perched atop the bow of a crumbling starship like a chimera carved into the wall of an ancient temple. Stepping forward from the ledge, the Zabrak drifted to the ground, his Force-assisted landing sending a puff of dust into the air. Lowering his hood as he strode toward her, Maul gestured to the Aurebesh text emblazoned on the side of the ship he’d caught her touching—the words he’d just spoken. 

“The first pirate vessel you crewed,” he hissed, crossing his arms and glaring at her. “Before you got your own command.” 

“Indeed it was,” she said, denying him the question she was certain he wanted her to ask— _ how did you know that?  _ It didn’t matter, of course, and beyond that the answer was obvious. He had recruited her, pulled her out of a life of piracy. How could he not have known? 

“Strange. Every vessel you command ends up crashed.” Before she could respond to the bait, he asked, “Shall we take a look inside?” 

At this her breathing stopped, if only for a moment. Valis was careful not to let her face betray the surprise she felt, and as she spoke again she forced herself to use a measured tone. “That’s really not necessary—”

“I insist,” Maul interrupted, moving to place a hand against the hull of the vessel. His palm met durasteel where the paint had faded differently, not from years of being beat down by the sun and rain but by the endless connecting and detaching of a docking tube, of the countless extensions and retractions of a boarding ramp. 

The egress hatch of the  _ Fractured Iris  _ swung inward, and Maul took his first steps inside the ship Valis had once called home. She was quick to follow behind him, and quicker still to make sure the hatch was shut and locked. One man had followed her up here—they didn’t need any more on their tail. 

Inside, the scent of stale air threatened to choke her—recycled starship atmosphere had a distinct enough scent when it was fresh, and this particular air had been festering inside the mothballed vessel for years upon years. Maul, she noticed, had moved a fair distance ahead of her within the corridors of the ship. He strode with purpose, as though he’d studied the deck plan of the ship— _ Perhaps,  _ it occurred to Valis,  _ he has.  _ In her effort to keep up she barely had time to take in the sights, the memories of a life long past shrouded in the shadows of a windowless spaceship hall. 

Scarcely a minute later, the pair emerged onto the old ship’s bridge. It was brighter here, illumination afforded by the low sunlight streaming in from the other side of San Sestina, filtering through a bridge viewport that had become a canvas. It became brighter still when Maul jammed his thumb into a panel on the wall, and a handful of the overhead lighting panels flickered to life.

“The lights still work,” Maul sneered, glancing at the glowing ceiling in mock surprise before resting his gaze on Valis. She said nothing in reply, merely gazing out the window.

The glass of the bridge viewport was covered in marker strokes of Aurebesh characters—the dutifully mechanical handwriting of Sephone Valis. It resembled typeface—set in perfectly spaced lines and columns, organized by category, inventorying ships and personnel and munitions, planning angles of attack across the Republic’s systems. An entire half of the window sported a hand-drawn map of the galaxy, its various sectors shaded in a multitude of colors—the shadow it cast painted a chromatic spiral on the deck of the dormant vessel. 

In the center sat the old captain’s chair, its padding stained and faded, tattered into shreds along the arms. Beside the chair sat an immaculate stack of flimsiplast notebooks, and beside that stack stood Maul. He plucked the topmost notebook from the pile and began to thumb through its contents. 

“Fascinating,” he mused, flipping through the pages faster than anyone could possibly have read them. “I see why you hid this place from the pirates”—he paused, allowing the still-open notebook to tumble from his grip and land face down on the deck beside the organized pile of its counterparts—”but why hide it from me?” 

“I wasn’t hiding it from anyone,” Valis answered, biting the inside of her cheek and trying her best not to look at the lone notebook laying askew on the floor. Her eyes instead wandered past the captain’s chair, past Maul, to the cushion set into one corner of the bridge, its fabric clearly newer than anything else aboard the ship. “I needed a space to get away. To meditate.” Her gaze moved back to the notebooks, then to the bridge window and the ink it bore upon its surface. “To plan next steps.” 

At this, something resembling a scoff escaped Maul’s mouth. Hunching forward as though preparing to pounce on unsuspecting prey, the Zabrak stalked toward the bridge viewport and gazed outside it. “You had a place to do that. You had Korriban. When we told the galaxy you were dead, I sent you there.” He made a sweeping gesture at one wall of the bridge—a bulkhead Valis had, until now, pointedly avoided looking at. Along this wall hung a row of mismatched metal cylinders; they glinted in the sun as a shaft of light sliced through the viewport. As Valis’ eyes fell upon the collection of lightsabers, her stomach leapt. 

“You trained there,” Maul continued—with a twitch of his fingers, one of the sabers leapt from the wall and settled into his gloved palm. “Destroyed Jedi there.” A silence lingered in the stale air before he spoke again—as he did, he turned to glare at Valis over his shoulder. “So why are we here?” 

_ Ah, there it is,  _ Valis thought—she’d been waiting for this moment to come. Maul had not set foot on San Sestina in the days leading up to the Coruscant attack; he’d been too busy preparing elsewhere throughout the galaxy. It had been her domain, and hers alone, until he’d arrived today. On more than one occasion it had crossed her mind that perhaps Maul wouldn’t exactly take to the place. 

“My mission was not to establish Korriban as a base of operations, Maul,” she replied, clasping her hands behind her back and strolling forward to meet him where he stood. “My mission was to source a replacement for every single resource afforded to us by the Confederacy. Ships. Supplies. Soldiers—”

“Your soldiers are drunk, Valis. That is acceptable to you?” he interrupted, gesturing with his free hand out the bridge window and toward the port town and its cacophony of celebration.

“Let me finish,” she said, her voice as icy as the glare that accompanied it. “There is one more thing we needed. The fuel that turns the cogs of every war machine: money. Korriban couldn’t offer that, but San Sestina? It had everything we needed. 

“The pirates aren’t clones; we can’t work them the same way we did the old soldiers. But if the price is right, they will do whatever we ask. We need their numbers—Kamino is lost to us, and the clones we can grow on Wayland will never be enough.” She paused to stare out the window as another pirate vessel sliced through the layer of clouds in the sky and settled down on a landing platform at the edge of the city. “You and I run this place now, and all the money that moves through it. That’s how we defeat the Republic. That’s how we win the war.” 

He did not turn to look at her—even his cloak hung perfectly still in the stagnant air of the mothballed pirate vessel. Maul simply raised a hand to indicate the multicolored map of the galaxy drawn on the window. “You call  _ that  _ winning?” 

It was, a small part of Valis supposed, a fair question. Had she drawn it a week ago, the map would have featured a large swath of a singular color encompassing the entire territory of the CIS—nearly a quarter of the galaxy. That territory was now fractured and segmented, jagged cracks snaking through it like a shattered mirror, each fragment a different hue. 

Just as she’d anticipated, the death of the Board had sent the Confederacy’s leadership fleeing in every direction. Ship captains stealing their vessels and their still-loyal clone crews, carving out a chunk of territory for themselves in the Outer Rim. Each commanding officer may have only nabbed a planet or two, but it had reduced the unified might of the CIS to a hodgepodge remnant of its former glory. 

It was precisely what they needed. 

“I do,” Valis answered. “If the Republic wishes to attack us, they will have to fight through that entire mess to get here. It’s a distraction, and it’s a defense.” And besides, Mekosk had been right about one thing—the board’s territories were never going to accept the two of them as their legitimate rulers. If they hadn’t been tearing themselves apart now, she and Maul would have had to do it themselves sooner or later. 

“The Senate met today.” The words left Maul’s mouth in an almost robotic manner, as if he weren’t quite certain of what he was saying. “In the very same building we just crashed a warship into.” At this moment he chose to turn and glare at her, his amber irises barely visible through narrowed eyelids. “We did not kill the chancellor. We did not destroy the Jedi. We accomplished nothing by attacking Coruscant.” 

“You know that isn’t true, Maul.” As she said it, a hint of defensiveness slipped into her voice. It was so  _ tiring _ to go through these conversations time and time again. She would explain the principle of her strategy to the Zabrak, and he would grasp it, only for his primal urge for power to come roaring back the next day. It was all he understood, and trying to make him understand otherwise was more wearying, Valis suspected, than it could possibly be worth. 

Taking a breath, she forced her frustration downward. Purged her voice of irritation. Explained calmly what she’d already tried to tell him when she made the decision to deorbit the ship. “Think of the fear we’ve caused. The damage to morale we’ve done. The symbolism of the  _ Charybids  _ slamming into the Senate dome will haunt them for the rest of the war.” 

“No!” he hissed, whirling to face her fully. “You still think like a tactician. But we are not fighting a tactician, we are fighting a Sith. You must think as he does. Every engagement must amass power. What power did we gain?” 

Her eyes darted sideways, back to the map of the galaxy she’d drawn on the window. 

“Sidious certainly has made the most of the situation,” Maul continued without waiting for her to answer. “We must strike again, and quickly. Each day that passes will see him consolidate more power—”

“Good,” Valis interrupted. “Let him.” 

Maul’s face twitched as she spoke, the corner of his mouth showing the barest hint of fangs. “What?” The word left his mouth in a hoarse whisper.

“The more of their Republic rests on his shoulders, the easier it becomes for us to topple. Hell, if we play our cards right, we might be seen as saviors rescuing people from a ruthless tyrant.” Deliberately, carefully, she made herself smirk—confidence was what she needed to present him with now, not a hint of the doubts that teemed through her own head. “That was the plan all along, wasn’t it? The reason for the Confederacy. Liberate the people from their oppressors. This time, we just . . . mean it.”

“And then  _ half  _ our mission is accomplished,” he spat, jabbing in her direction with the lightsaber hilt he still held in his palm. “Or have you forgotten the Jedi.” His fingers curled open, and the lightsaber hilt tumbled to the floor. 

Valis never saw it hit the deck of the bridge. Instead her mind carried her elsewhere—to a cave on Korriban, where the desert heat and icy winds of darkness converged, and the stone floor was forever stained with Jedi blood. There the hilt landed, kicking up a puff of dust as it came to rest at her feet—and within reach of a captured Jedi. 

It had become utterly predictable in her two years on Korriban. Every handful of weeks Maul’s ship would appear in the ash-choked sky, the Lord of the Sith arriving with yet another captured Jedi. Each had failed in their mission to destroy him—and were thus destined to be destroyed by Darth Valis. 

For over a year, every single one of them had put up a noble fight. No underhanded tricks of the Force, no dirty swordplay. Paragons of virtue to the bitter end.

Then one day, her quarry refused to take up arms. Their saber lay before them in the dust and dried blood as they sat on their knees, not even looking Valis in the eye. Maul had grown impatient, and she had grown frustrated, and she’d slaughtered the Jedi just as she’d slaughtered the rest of them. 

It was different after that. More refused to fight, as if they’d somehow learned of their predecessor’s principled last stand. Still she’d had no choice—they were Jedi, she was Sith. They had to die.

She’d told herself it didn’t bother her. Why should it? Her end had required worse means—cities toppled, civilians slain, loyalties betrayed. And the Jedi had brought this on themselves—had helped the Republic turn her home into an alien world when she was still a child.

And yet, whenever her mind wandered back to that first cold-blooded execution, part of her . . . flinched. The Board had deserved it—they’d died the panicked animals they were, unable to see anything beyond their own self-interest. But that one, that one had been . . .

“They will die, Maul,” she said aloud, turning her eyes from the fallen Jedi’s lightsaber as it rolled gently back and forth on the floor. “What is it you like to say? Cut one, the other bleeds? The Jedi will fall as the Republic does.” 

“We shall see.” He brushed past her and strolled toward the ruined command consoles at the rear of the bridge, deeper into the shadow of the wrecked vessel. When the black of his cloak had nearly become one with the darkness, he turned to glare at her over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it. You must have next steps to plan.” 

She ignored the jab, hoping her silence would drive him out of the room. Then, as he was nearly to the threshold of the bridge, a wave of fear washed over her. The one doubt she dared not keep to herself. “Wait.” 

He froze in place but did not turn to look at her. “Yes?” 

“There is one thing that worries me. His apprentice.” 

Maul said nothing for several seconds. Then: “Is that a question?”

“He spoke of a new apprentice. One who would destroy us.” Her voice wavered as the words crossed her lips. “Should we be worried?” 

“Empty threats,” Maul replied, a gloved hand offering a dismissive wave. “A week ago he had no need for another student; he believed I was on his side. He cannot possibly train a new apprentice on such short notice.”

“What if he already is?” she asked, the question carrying her forward several steps in Maul’s direction. “He trained you in secret while he had another apprentice. He made you kill that apprentice.” She left the next thought unspoken:  _ He could do it again. _

The Zabrak seemed to consider this for the briefest of moments before turning to look back at Valis. “Yes. That he did.” With that, he disappeared through the bridge door. 

Once again, Valis stood alone in the graveyard.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: LAWLESS WORLDS** _

Well beyond the borders of any civilized spacefaring government, systems which do not respect or recognize intergalactic transit law offer a safe port of call to the galaxy’s criminal population. Though often colloquially known as pirate havens, the Republic officially designates such planets, moons, and outposts as Lawless Worlds. 

The Republic maintains a database of known Lawless Worlds, though it is regarded among seasoned space travelers as incomplete at best. Past attempts by the Republic to bring these Lawless Worlds under their own jurisdiction—and, subsequently, prosecution—have ranged from moderately successful to outright disastrous.

No Chancellor’s administration has dared touch the issue since the early 1040s, when Chancellor Vamni Ubon secretly hired mercenaries to strike against a Lawless World at the edge of the Mid Rim. The brutal war that followed is credited with exacerbating space piracy in the region for the next several decades and ending Ubon’s political career. 


	8. A Mysterious Summons (Part II: Ties That Bind)

As Obi-Wan placed a palm against the Old Library door, the absence of the lightsaber that usually hung from his belt was enough to give him pause. The comlink missing from his pocket he could forgive—but parting from this lightsaber was not something he often did. Not since Serenno.

He hadn’t built the weapon alone, the way most Jedi constructed their sabers. Nor had he built it out of necessity—he’d still had a perfectly good lightsaber at the time, as had the man who’d helped him piece together this one. They’d assembled it as a duo, joking as they slotted pieces into the machined cylinder of the saber hilt about which of them would be the first to need “the backup.” 

The answer, it turned out, had been Obi-Wan. He’d retrieved it from the armory of the  _ Spice Dancer  _ as the ship hurtled toward Serenno. Not long after, the backup saber had clashed against the weapon of a Sith Lord. To this day, he kept it by his side. 

It—along with its elder brother, sitting even now in the chest in Obi-Wan’s quarters—was all he had left of Anakin. 

Sighing, he shoved the door inward and crossed the threshold into the most ancient room in the Jedi Archives. Technology was forbidden between these walls. A ceremonial tradition Master Nu was quite fond of—meant to free the Jedi scholars from any possible distraction, so they might more closely touch the Force as they read the ancient texts. Obi-Wan could not deny there was a warmth here—one lacking in the rest of the Archives, whose shelves had long since been overtaken by the clinical blinking lights of databank towers and computer terminals. 

There was also an eerie silence, a stillness to the air. He was alone—one Jedi standing amidst a thousand generations of knowledge. He approached one of the towering shelves and gazed closer at its volumes. Leather spines, cracked by centuries of weathering, protruded from the carved wood. Leaning forward, Obi-Wan placed the tip of his nose against the spine of one ancient book and inhaled. 

The scent of the Old Library never quite managed to rouse within him the feelings of nostalgia most of his Jedi colleagues spoke of. The books he’d grown up on, stored as they were in Yoda’s hut, smelled significantly more musty. But Obi-Wan could not deny the pleasant aroma of the texts. 

“I thought only the scholars came back here.” 

He fought his instinct to startle at the voice—instead, he slowly pulled away from the bookshelf and turned to face his fellow Jedi. “That makes two of us who are out of place, then,” Obi-Wan said, cocking his head to one side and raising an eyebrow. When the Mirialan woman across the room offered a warm smile, he nodded his head in the slightest bow and returned one of his own. “Hello, Luminara.” 

“Master Kenobi,” she said, keeping her voice hushed as though someone else were waiting around the corner to offer a stern  _ shh! _ —though none came. A brief outward stretch of Obi-Wan’s senses confirmed it; the two master Knights were alone. 

“What brings you to the Old Library?” he asked, raising his hands in a half shrug, half sweeping gesture, as if the shelves of ancient tomes were his to showcase. 

Something seemed to tug at the corners of Luminara’s mouth, as though she were suppressing another smile. “Looking for you, actually.” 

At this, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but chuckle. “I thought only scholars came back here. Why would you expect to find me?” 

“You’re not as sneaky as your old partner, Obi-Wan.” Luminara took a step forward, tracing a fingertip along the edge of a bookshelf as she walked. “I saw you slip back here.” The Mirialan paused, biting the inside of her cheek in apparent hesitation before continuing. “When the students arrived inside the Archives for their group lesson.” 

This made Obi-Wan’s heart skip a beat. He wouldn’t have minded someone simply noticing that he had left the room. That Luminara had picked up on the  _ why  _ of it was another matter entirely.

Two years on, it still hurt to watch. The warm smiles between teacher and apprentice, the knowing glances and unspoken exchanges that could only happen between a Jedi Knight and their Master. And inevitably, when he was around a group of students for too long, someone would ask the question he couldn’t stand to hear. 

_ When are  _ you  _ taking another student, Master Jedi? _

They all meant well, of course, but the question stung the same—and the answer hadn’t changed. He wasn’t ready. There were days where he wondered if he’d ever  _ been _ ready—if perhaps that had been precisely the root of the problem.

_ And besides,  _ he’d confided to Qui-Gon one of the scattered times they’d spoken since she’d left Coruscant,  _ I don’t trust myself not to take someone as a . . . as a replacement for Anakin. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. _

So, as the students of the Force and their teachers had assembled in the Archives, Obi-Wan had handed over his lightsaber and commlink and retreated to the Old Library. With Lumniara now standing before him, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d pulled the same trick a few too many times.

Evidently sensing his tension, Luminara held up an open palm. “Fear not, Obi-Wan. That isn’t why I’m here.” She glanced over her shoulder, her ornamental headdress flowing with the motion. “I just needed to catch you away from prying eyes for a moment. There’s something you need to see.” 

His face scrunched for just a moment, confusion washing over him—only for intense curiosity to replace it. What could Luminara possibly have for him that no one else was supposed to know about? Forcing himself to appear casual, he shifted his weight to his back foot and gestured toward her with an open hand. “All right. Show me.” 

“I can’t. Not here.” She glanced from one wall to the other, bookshelf to towering bookshelf. “No technology allowed, remember?” At this, she reached out to the shelf nearest her and plucked a glass cube from its resting place, turning it over in her hand. The cube—an ancient Jedi holocron—glinted in the light as it shifted back and forth. Raising her eyes to look at Obi-Wan, she offered him a shrug. “Not that I begrudge the tradition. There  _ are  _ other places to meet that’ll keep the eavesdroppers out. Come find us; we’ll be waiting for you in the map room.”

“Us?” 

“You’ll see.” Turning the glasswork prism over in her hand one final time, she tossed it across the room at Obi-Wan. “Don’t dally, Master Kenobi.”

Acting on instinct more than anything else, he snatched the holocron out of the air as it sailed toward him. When he looked back up Luminara had disappeared. 

He stood there for a moment, simply existing in the state of solitude he’d returned to, and weighed the old holocron in his hand. Even these were devoid of any technology, lacking the holoprojectors and data storage of a modern Jedi holocron. The Jedi Knights of generations past would carry them in the field, using the light-bending lenses found within to encrypt and decode messages. 

As he held it high, the curves of the crystalline interior warped the light passing through the holocron. Some Jedi said if you stared long enough, looked closely enough, that you could still see the mysteries of the past embedded within the transparent cube. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if it was true, but for now it hardly mattered. Moving across the library floor, its old wood creaking as he walked, he gently lowered the old glass holocron back into its resting place atop a shelf. 

The old mysteries would have to wait. A new one lay before him. Quickening his pace, he rushed out of the Old Library, snatching up his lightsaber and commlink and making his way toward the map room of the Jedi Temple. 

It was time to find out what awaited him there.

* * *

The shadow of the  _ Dancer  _ was one among many, space vessels shrouded in the darkness of the blacked-out garage. Their silhouettes looked vaguely threatening in the low light—a mishmash of gently curving star yachts and boxy, angular cargo tugs looming in rows. 

_ It looks like the pirate fleet,  _ Anakin thought with a shudder. 

Before the attacks, the ship garage had looked more like a showroom—harsh, even lighting, intended to offer visibility even in the dead of night and ward off would-be burglars, normally shone down from the ceiling in perfectly patterned stripes. Now, with rolling blackouts meant to conserve power while the capitol district recovered—and offworld travel limited to all but the most essential government business—a private ship garage had little reason to keep the lights on. 

Anakin hadn’t visited the  _ Spice Dancer _ ’s home since before the attacks, and probably wouldn’t have now were it not for a note he’d discovered. He’d returned home to an empty apartment, a hand-scrawled scrap of paper resting prominently on the dining room table’s centerpiece. The script, unmistakably Padmé’s handwriting, read simply: “ _ Meet me on the  _ Dancer _. _ ” 

Now he walked toward the rear of the garage, their ship’s assigned parking spot still visible in what little evening light leaked through from outside. The boarding ramp was already lowered, a power cable snaking up—meant to provide energy to the ship’s most critical systems even if the engine were powered down. Stepping over the coiled cord as he ascended the ramp, Anakin pressed his mechanical thumb into the entry hatch’s activator button. 

The interior reminded him all too much of the lower cargo decks of Junkfort Station. Boxes of miscellaneous parts and unorganized tools were strewn about. The vessel’s main lights were offline, the space instead lit by crisscrossed beams from portable worklamps. In the shadow of one such emergency light, Anakin could see Padmé’s unmistakable silhouette leaning against the galley table.

“Hey, stranger,” she said.

Anakin thumbed the hatch’s activator again—as it  _ swished  _ shut behind him, he rushed toward her, leaning down to her height and keeping his voice low. 

“Did you sneak past the Coruscant Guard to get here? This district’s under curfew!” 

She shrugged, shoving away from the table and stepping fully into the cone of light cast by the worklamp. “More fun that way, isn’t it?” 

He opened his mouth to protest—the rules may have been restrictive, but they were only temporary, and they were what kept Coruscant safe as they sought to rebuild—but thought better of it after only a moment. There was no sense starting a fight; he’d only just arrived. Besides, she had a point—it was a  _ little  _ fun.  _ Remember fun, Skywalker? _

Instead, he asked the question that had bugged him since he’d found her note on the dining table back home. “What are you doing out here?” 

“It’s funny,” she began, wandering past him to the center of the galley, “I lost track of the number of times I told her to shut up over the years. Now that she’s gone, the apartment’s too quiet.” 

He couldn’t argue. The nights he’d spent working hadn’t been  _ only _ to stay away from a home left silent by the droid’s absence, but that emptiness . . . lingered. “We could move,” he offered with a shrug—but even as the words left his mouth he knew he didn’t mean them. The capitol district was still rebuilding the housing that had been lost during the attacks on Coruscant. There wasn’t anywhere to move to. 

Padmé, it seemed, had the same thought. “That’s not happening right now, and you know it,” she said, glancing down at the deck and dragging a foot along it. 

“We’ll live on the  _ Dancer _ , then,” Anakin said, falling back into his old grin and trying to mean it. “It’ll be just like old times.”

And it would be, in all senses of that phrase. For all the years they’d owned it, the  _ Spice Dancer  _ had, out of necessity, existed in a state of perpetual repair. He and Padmé had never been able to stop in one place long enough to really  _ fix  _ the thing—until they’d both moved to Coruscant. Even then, work had kept them busy enough that the project was moving at a snail’s pace. A few months back, the couple had finally gotten the courage to completely gut the vessel’s engine and replace every broken or damaged part. They’d even gotten most of the way done. 

Then the attacks started. 

Anakin, for his part, had come to accept that the only way the  _ Dancer  _ was ever leaving the garage was in parts—or on the back of a cargo tug. There was simply too much wrong with it at this point, and sourcing parts in a recovering warzone was all but impossible. 

So, when Padmé took his flesh hand inside her own and dragged him back toward the engine room, saying simply, “Funny you should mention that,” his curiosity was more than piqued.

“I got you something,” she said as they stood at the door to the heart of the  _ Dancer _ . “Go ahead, open it up.” 

Extending his mechanical hand toward the engine room door, Anakin felt a quiver of anticipation. Shoving the door aside, he stared at the behemoth that was the  _ Dancer _ ’s engine. Sitting atop it was a shiny piece of metal about the size of his forearm, wrapped in a little red bow. 

“No way!” he shouted, a childlike excitement washing over him as he dashed into the engine room and snatched the ship part off the top of the engine. “You found a new phase inverter! They don’t even make these anymore.” He paused, turning slowly to face Padmé. “Who’d you have to swindle to get it?” 

She stood there with arms crossed, leaning into the doorframe at the threshold of the engine room, and chuckled. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you,” she said—and after a moment, they were both giggling. 

“Wish I could’ve been there to see you work your magic,” he muttered under his breath, turning the phase inverter over in his hand. The servomotors of his arm whirred as he felt the weight of the part and admired the way it sparkled in the light of the worklamps. It looked brand new—either Padmé had worked her ass off scrubbing the thing clean once she’d found it, or she’d pulled one hell of a con to snag a new one. 

“What’re you waiting for, Skywalker? Slot it in, I wanna see if it works.” 

He stared back at her and raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t tested it yet?” 

She scoffed. “It’s  _ your  _ present.”

“Fair enough.” Tugging at one end of the bow, he allowed the red fabric to flutter to the deck of the engine room. He found his hands gravitating to the spot on the engine where the old phase inverter used to be—though the slot for the part was empty, he could still picture the charred lump of metal that had once lived there, and had somehow miraculously functioned far longer than it should have. 

His heart fluttered as he wedged the engine part in place, bracing himself for something to send sparks flying in his face or cause smoke to rise from the engine. Nothing happened, and Anakin exhaled a sigh of relief. 

“Ready to spin her up?” Padmé asked—as Anakin looked back at her, she shoved away from the doorframe and stepped into the engine room. 

“Let’s do it.” 

The two of them had performed the startup sequence of the  _ Spice Dancer  _ so many times it had become a rehearsed dance. They moved around one another effortlessly, plugging in wires and throwing levers, until they came together to complete the final task—throwing the hulking master switch against the far wall of the engine room.

“We’re cut off from the garage’s external power,” Padmé said. “Let’s see if she’s got any life in her now.” 

Anakin’s thumb moved toward the intercom panel beside the master switch. Pressing it in, he called out: “Okay, Liz, we’re ready down here. Stand by for—”

_ Dammit.  _

A rehearsed dance, Anakin realized, was bound to hit a snag when one of the dancers was missing. 

Suddenly Padmé’s hand was on his shoulder, her dark eyes gazing up at his. “You okay?” she asked, the catch in her voice more noticeable for the effort she was putting in to hide it. 

“I’m fine,” he said, shoving down the emotions rising within him. “Let’s just keep going.” 

So they did. A countdown from three. A heaving of the master switch with clenched fists and gritted teeth. A whoop of joy as, for the first time in months, the  _ Spice Dancer  _ came to life. Their droid may have been lost, but their ship still lived—so Padmé and Anakin wrapped each other up in a squeezing embrace. 

Anakin lost track of time as they stood there, arms around each other—until Padmé loosened her grip. With that, he slipped away, back out into the main hall of the ship. Padmé followed closely behind him.

“Huh,” was all he said when he emerged into the galley. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking up at him. 

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The worklamps, which had been connected to external garage power, now stood dormant on their tripod stands. Instead the overhead lighting of the  _ Dancer  _ shone bright, painting the galley in even brushstrokes of illumination. 

“I think I liked it better when half the lights didn’t work,” he joked. Not a day had gone by when he hadn’t regretted taking up the Alderaan royal family on their offer to restore the ship’s interior. It was too clean, too polished, too bright. He missed the rust and the exposed wiring and the one spot in the corner of the galley where you couldn’t see a thing. 

The sound of shattering glass followed by metal impacting metal tore him from his reminiscing, and his mechanical arm shot up to cover his face as shards of a lighting panel rained down on him. “What the hell?” 

His eyes darted from Padmé, to the ceiling, to a hydrospanner that was now rolling about on the deck. Anakin watched as his wife snatched another tool off the dining table, and wound it up to throw it at the ceiling. 

Reaching out to snatch her wrist, he shot Padmé a look of disbelief. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“It’s our ship,” she said with a shrug. “If you liked the broken lights better, let’s break the lights.” He let go of her wrist, and she threw a wrench at the ceiling. 

There it was again—that overly dark corner of the galley, now home to a dented tool and a pile of broken glass. Anakin chuckled.  _ That’s our girl. _

Turning to gaze at the impeccably maintained galley bulkhead, he reached out with his metal hand and tore a panel from the wall. “Exposed wiring always was one of her defining features,” he said, tossing the piece of paneling to the deck and turning back toward Padmé. 

“Agreed,” she said, moving forward within the ship and grabbing another wall panel. When she’d wrenched it free of its housing, she jammed a fist into the hole she’d made and tore out a handful of wiring. “And if every electrical connection is working, is it  _ really  _ the  _ Spice Dancer _ ?” 

“Definitely not,” he answered, moving forward to meet her. Drawing his blaster from the holster on his belt, he lined up a shot and pulled the trigger. The bolt left a smoldering gash in the corridor wall, and the stench of burning ship interior tickled Anakin’s nose. He glanced over at his wife, raising an eyebrow as if to say  _ your turn _ . 

She did exactly what he hoped she would, quickdrawing her own firearm and leaving an identical burn mark in the opposite wall. 

They stood there for a moment, simply admiring their handiwork, then turned to face each other and locked eyes. Blasters clattered to the floor, and their lips met in a kiss.

The sudden whirlwind seemed to pull the world inward—nothing outside the hull of their ship existed. As they dragged each other forward, toward the nose of the vessel and the sleeping cabins it held, there were only the two of them and the  _ Spice Dancer _ . 

Lips still locked together, Anakin and Padmé moved into their cabin and slammed the door behind them. 

* * *

The crackle of fire and a glare of blinding light welcomed Obi-Wan into the Jedi Temple map room. He squinted against the onslaught, lifting up a hand to shield his eyes until they had a chance to adjust. When the glow faded, he could just make out the silhouette of Luminara beneath her headdress. 

He took a few steps further into the room, glancing down to see the warped projection of a star chart across his robes. The map room was one of the oldest structures still in use within the Jedi Temple, the technology that powered it dating back hundreds of years. The projection of maps was achieved with a torch and a magnifying lens; the maps themselves were etched into slates of glass, transparent snapshots of the galaxy and its numerous planets from eras stretching back to the founding of the Order. The walls and floor were featureless, meant to function only as projection screens that could be walked beside—or upon.

Still squinting against the light, Obi-Wan addressed the silhouette. “All right, I’m here. What map did you want to show me?” As he spoke, he turned so the torch-powered projector was at his back, and took in the full scope of the galaxy’s glowing image. 

“Not a map, Obi-Wan,” Luminara corrected, emerging from the shadow and stepping into the projector’s light alongside him. “A message. We intercepted something that came through the communication network, addressed to you.” 

He shot the Mirialan a sideways glance, scrunching his brow. “Opening other people’s mail, are we?” 

“Didn’t open!” a new voice piped up from the shadows at the back of the map room. “Merely saw who sent it. Enough cause for concern.” Its tone shrill, its rhythm a singsong staccato, Obi-Wan knew the voice could only belong to the Jedi Order’s Duros quartermaster. 

As the voice’s owner emerged from the glare beneath the projector, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but offer a pleasant chuckle. “Hello, Qlik.” He could see the Duros brandishing a handheld holoprojector in his grip, and nodded toward the device. “What have we here?” 

“Your message. Scanned for safety. No trackers, no listening devices. May I?” Qlik gestured toward the floor of the map room, and Obi-Wan nodded an affirmative. As the Duros tossed the device to the ground, it came to life with a blue-green glow. 

For a brief moment, the official seal of the Senate filled the air between the three Jedi.  _ Cause for concern indeed,  _ Obi-Wan thought as the emblem dissipated, replaced by a life-size projection of a protocol droid. 

_ “This message is for the eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi only, and should be viewed when alone. If you are not alone, please pause the message and relocate to a private area. Thank you.”  _

Obi-Wan’s eyes flitted to Luminara, then to Qlik. The former waved a dismissive hand; the latter simply stared, his bulbous red eyes reflecting the holographic image. 

_ “Greetings, esteemed former general Obi-Wan Kenobi of Alderaan. I am RE-925, administrative assistant to the Director of the Office of Special Investigations. This message is an official summons. Within one week’s time, you are to appear before an interview panel at the Office of Special Investigations headquarters to answer questions pertaining to the investigation of the Confederacy of Independent Systems’ attack on Coruscant.  _

_ “Your participation in this investigation is critical to the continued security of the Republic. We thank you in advance for your cooperation.”  _

As the image of the droid faded away and was replaced again by the Senate seal, Obi-Wan said: “Oh.” 

“Wait, I don’t understand,” said Luminara, her voice strangely monotone—Obi-Wan noticed she wasn’t addressing him, but was instead staring daggers at Qlik. “What’s the Office of Special Investigations?”

Before Qlik could speak, Obi-Wan jumped in to save him. “It’s a government agency. Bail Organa told me about it, back when he was still chancellor.”

“Yes, thank you, Obi-Wan. I gathered that much,” she said, her gaze landing on him. “What does this agency  _ do _ ?” 

“It’s kept dormant,” he began, reaching back into his memory, “unstaffed until the need arises for a highly sensitive internal investigation. The Chancellor can activate the agency with Senate approval, or it can be done by the chairperson of the Committee on Criminal Justice. I think.” 

Luminara whirled to glare at Qlik again. “You didn’t tell me he was being accused of a  _ crime! _ ” Her raised voice echoed throughout the map room. 

“Not accused!” Qlik said, raising a pointed finger in the air. “Interviewed as part of an open criminal investigation. Different things.” With that same pointed finger, he gestured toward the dormant holoprojector. “The message was careful to accuse him of nothing.” 

“Yes, and I imagine that caution will remain in place until they feel they have something solid,” Obi-Wan muttered, raising a hand to his chin. “I just don’t understand. I wasn’t involved in the battle. The  _ Coelacanth  _ was, but I haven’t commanded her crew in years—”

“You didn’t do anything?” Luminara asked. The question was not one of accusation, but genuine curiosity, the harshness fading from her voice. “Fight off clones with your lightsaber? Use the Force to rescue someone from a burning building? People notice things, Master Kenobi.” 

He hesitated—best to tell them, get it on the table now?—then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We need to call the Masters together for a council, hold a vote on how to handle—”

“No!” The sharp shout came from Qlik, who had stepped closer to Obi-Wan as the word left his mouth. His already wide eyes had grown even wider, and his aura in the Force radiated pure urgency. “Exactly the thing we should not do.” 

“Qlik, are you sure?” Luminara asked, turning to face the Duros—concern was painted across her face. Obi-Wan got the distinct impression he was witnessing the continuation of a conversation the pair had already had, one he’d not been present for. 

“This changes nothing,” said the quartermaster, bouncing off each word like someone striking a hammer. Holding his open palms toward the ceiling, Qlik turned to face Obi-Wan. “Incredible opportunity awaits us inside that office. Placing a Jedi within the Office of Special Investigations has proved . . . problematic.” 

Obi-Wan nodded slowly as understanding dawned on him. “And they’ve just sent a personal invitation to one.” 

“Precisely,” Qlik replied, gesturing along with the word as if he was conducting an orchestra. “Risky, yes, but a chance to discover what they’re up to. A chance we won’t get again.”

“Especially with people like Drallig more focus on enemies out there than concerns . . . closer to home,” Luminara put in.

“And if we hold a vote in council—”

“They’ll tell you not to go,” Luminara finished for him. “Everyone will want you to hole up here and hide from the investigation.” She turned to look at the Duros. “You’re right, this changes nothing.” 

Obi-Wan, lost in thought, barely registered this last exchange. They were right, of course—he had to do it. And at any rate he couldn’t very well hide from a government investigation. But there were so many unknowns. What awaited him in that office? What did they  _ really  _ want to know? Had the Republic somehow uncovered his identity as a Jedi?

_ Did Anakin _ he began, and then slammed a boot down on the thought before it could finish.

“Master Obi-Wan?” Qlik’s voice cut through the questions swirling in Obi-Wan’s head. 

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry. I’ll do it, of course, it’s just—”

“There might be another way,” Luminara interrupted. Each word left her mouth slowly, measured—as if she were coming up with the thought even as she spoke it. “Or at least a way for you to be more prepared. You said the Chancellor can activate this special investigation?”

“Or the chair of the Justice Committee, yes. Why?” 

“Maybe Skywalker knows something.” 

It took all the effort in the world for Obi-Wan to keep the pain he felt from showing on his face—and he couldn’t keep it all from seeping into his voice. “Luminara, I haven’t spoken to Anakin since . . .” 

He trailed off. It felt as though the air had left the room. 

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I just thought it might be helpful. I want you going in there as prepared as possible.” 

“Yes,” Qlik added. “We both do.” 

Placing her hand on Qlik’s shoulder to guide him forward, Luminara moved toward the map room’s exit. “We’ll give you some space,” she said. “I assume we’re all on the same page, here—none of this is spoken of outside this room, yes?” 

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said with a robotic nod, his mind a parsec away. 

“Before you depart, let me know,” Qlik said as Duros and Mirialan made for the door. “Want to keep an eye on you. As much as I can, anyway.” 

They were gone before Obi-Wan had a chance to respond. 

He stood there in silence so long he lost track of time. It was all too much to take in. He found himself wishing Qui-Gon was with him. Or Master Yoda.  _ Or Padmé.  _

But he’d made a promise. None of this was to leave the room—unless, of course, he could find out more from his former student. 

Stretching a hand out toward the floor, he snatched up the miniature holoprojector as it sailed into his palm. If there were a special investigation going on, perhaps he should do some investigating of his own. 

And for that, he needed to speak to an old friend. 

_ Well,  _ he thought as he strode toward the door, his shoulders broadening as determination filled his mind,  _ I suppose it’s time to reunite Kenobi and Skywalker.  _

* * *

The  _ Spice Dancer  _ had always had a way of breaking down at the least convenient times. Whether it was halfway through smuggling guns along the Corellian Run, or in the sky above Had Abbadon sandwiched between Confederate frigates, the ship had a penchant for putting Anakin and Padmé in rather inconvenient situations. 

_ You think you’d be used to this by now,  _ Padmé scolded herself as she bolted back toward the cockpit ladder at the aft of the ship. She barely had time to throw a glance behind her and see that Anakin was stumbling down the hallway fiddling with his shirt buttons. 

“Just leave it off!” she shouted back at him, running one hand through her unkempt hair as she grabbed a ladder rung with the other. 

Only minutes prior, a maintenance alarm had sent them scrambling out of the cabin, rushing to get dressed in time to stop the ship from exploding. Padmé’s best guess, which she’d shared with Anakin as whatever shards of romance remained between them dissolved into sheer panic, was that the newly installed phase inverter hadn’t been properly discharged. To fix that, they’d need to run the ship’s entire startup sequence from the cockpit. And they’d need to do it fast. 

Nearly falling to the deck as she reached the ladder’s peak, Padmé crawled into the  _ Dancer _ ’s captain’s chair and spun it into place. A half-shirtless Anakin was right on her heels, settling into the co-pilot seat. The couple locked eyes, nodded at each other, and in unison shouted, “Go!” 

They’d run the preflight startup more times than she could count—their rhythmic back-and-forth of shouting system names and flipping switches was more of a well-oiled machine than the ship itself. Anakin would call out the name of a critical component, and her hand would snap to the button for it as though she were a droid whose only purpose was powering up starships. 

On and on this rhythm continued, a perfectly synchronized routine. Neither one of them was thinking, they were simply acting as one. 

Finally they’d arrived. Padmé braced for the final step—the throttling of the engines. They didn’t have time to discuss it beforehand—even now, the pace of the alarm klaxon was quickening at a worrying rate—but actually throwing the  _ Dancer _ ’s throttle all the way open would do little more than slam them into the garage wall. She hoped to the gods that she and Anakin were on the same wavelength—this was only a dry run, meant to do nothing more than save the ship’s power system from overloading. 

“Mixture?” Anakin shouted, sending Padmé’s hand gravitating toward the lever which controlled it. 

“Set!” she yelled back, bracing herself for the next step. 

“Throttle!” 

Their hands both shot toward the dual levers—one for the port engine nacelle, the other for the starboard—and moved forward a fraction of an inch in perfect sync. 

The idle hum of the  _ Spice Dancer’ _ s engines rumbled throughout the cockpit; Anakin and Padmé both let out a sigh of relief that morphed into nervous laughter. 

“You know,” she said, “we always pull it off, but I really wasn’t sure about that one.” 

“Definitely the most . . .  _ compromising  _ time the  _ Dancer’ _ s ever gone critical on us,” Anakin said with a snicker, his mechanical hand moving to finish buttoning his shirt. “Although,” he continued, dragging out the word, “if we had blown up, at least we would’ve died satisfied.” 

Padmé punched him in the shoulder. 

Leaning back in the captain’s chair, she spun it around in a lazy circle, watching as her husband rose to his feet. 

“Too bad we went to all the trouble of starting up the ship,” Anakin said. “We can’t actually fly anywhere.” 

At this, she spun back to face out the cockpit window—though all she saw was the inside of the ship garage, her imagination turned the view into a million pinpricks of light, the stars of spaceflight turning into the starlines of hyperspace. “Who says we can’t?” she muttered, mostly to herself. 

“You serious?” 

She swiveled in the chair to face him. “I mean, I wasn’t, but . . . sure. Liz is gone, the city’s full of rubble, and neither of us can sleep in our own apartment. Why not just . . . go somewhere?” The more she said, the more it seemed like the exact thing they needed right now. 

“There’s a no-fly restriction, for one,” Anakin answered, holding up a finger as though he was about to launch into a numbered list of reasons. 

“And since when has that ever bothered legendary flyboy Anakin Skywalker?” Padmé shot back with a smirk. “Come on, we can outrun them.”

For a moment he looked tempted. Then he sighed. “We’d just divert patrols from the areas that need them.”

_ Oh for gods’ sake,  _ she thought, her enthusiasm slowly draining away as she realized he hadn’t simply been playing the straight man. He meant it.

And of course she knew  _ why _ . “Oh, right,” she said against her better judgement, the cold water that had been poured over her head leaking into her voice. “No rest for the wicked when you work for Chancellor Government Overreach.” 

“The city was attacked, Padmé,” Anakin said, his voice suddenly mannered—she could tell he was trying his best to keep his cool. “A no-fly order is a perfectly reasonable security measure at a time like this.” 

_I know what you’ve been feeling tonight isn’t fake, you idiot,_ she wanted to shoot back. _And_ _I know why you’re saying this now when a few years ago_ you _would have been the one making the stupid plan._ Instead, she simply muttered, “Wow, okay, nice to see you’ll parrot the talking points even when you aren’t on the news.”

She saw the anger flash across Anakin’s eyes, and could just make out the sound of grinding metal as he clenched his mechanical fist—but he was simply quiet for a moment. “Besides,” he finally said, as though she hadn’t spoken at all, “I can’t just up and leave.” He paused, exhaling through his nose, and continued—his voice was softer now. “Not tonight. I have a work thing.”

As the final words filled the air, Anakin glanced down at the deck. 

“A work thing?” Padmé echoed back at him, raising an eyebrow. “Weren’t you all concerned that we were out here breaking curfew? How are you even allowed to have a work event later tonight?” 

“Hey, Palpatine signed a new order lifting curfews in a few districts just this afternoon,” Anakin said, his voice falling into a singsong register that left Padmé wanting to smack him. The worst part was his face—his expression was as guileless as ever.  _ Bastard doesn’t even  _ realize _ how smug he’s being. _

Shaking her head, she laughed. “Oh, I see how it is. He lifts the curfew in the capitol entertainment district so he can go to the opera, right?”

She’d meant it as a joke—one at Palpatine’s expense that perhaps even Anakin could have had a laugh at. The dead-eyed stare on her husband’s face told her she’d maybe hit a little too close to the mark.

“Oh  _ gods,”  _ she continued when he’d been silent for too long. “That’s not  _ actually _ where you’re going tonight, is it?” 

“We’re done talking about this,” Anakin snapped, whirling around to face the access ladder. 

“Yeah, I guess we are,” Padmé fired back, spinning her chair to face the  _ Dancer _ ’s viewport. “Just get out of here. I’ll take care of shutting down the ship.” She paused, listening as Anakin’s footfalls hit successively lower rungs of the ladder. When he was far enough away that she was confident he was actually leaving, but still close enough to hear, she added, “Wouldn’t want you to be late for the show!” 

Something below deck—Padme wasn’t sure what, though she could tell by the noise that it was made of metal—slammed into a bulkhead. Seconds later, the  _ whoosh  _ of the ship’s access door sounded twice in quick succession. Anakin was gone. 

Easing the throttle backwards just a hair, Padmé brought the  _ Dancer _ ’s engines back into their idle state. Then, with the weight of sorrow slowing their movements, her hands went through the shutdown checklist as automatically as they’d started the ship up. 

Only when the last switch on the control board had been toggled off, and the lights of the cockpit had flickered out, did Padmé allow a tear to roll down her cheek. 

For the rest of the evening, she sat alone in the cockpit and cried. 

* * *

As his speeder’s engines roared to life, Anakin punched at the steering yoke with his mechanical hand and swore. It wasn’t  _ fair _ , he thought, hating the inanity of the sentence even as it crossed through his mind, just for once things had been back to the way they were and she’d had to ruin it the way she always,  _ always _ did when things even strayed to the subject of Palpatine—

_ Breathe,  _ said a voice in his head that wasn’t his.  _ Just breathe. Let it go. _

Clenching his fists shut, he slowly, carefully inhaled. Closed his eyes. Let the breath out in one long exhalation. The next inhalation came a little easier, a little calmer.

But then his eyes snapped open again. It was all wrong—the breathing was pushing some of the anger away, but this was a  _ Jedi _ exercise, and the voice, he realized too late, was a memory of Obi-Wan. And when he’d pushed his emotions away—purged his head of himself and opened it to the beyond—there would be nothing. No sensations of the living world around him, no vibrations of something greater reaching out and touching him. Just infinite, meaningless nothing.

Still, even with the exercise unfinished, enough of the fog of anger had begun to dissipate that he felt a mortified sheepishness creep in. Of  _ course _ she’d joked, that’s what Padmé did, isn’t that why you fell in love with her you damn fool Skywalker oh  _ god.  _ It was his fault. All of it.

He almost got out of the cockpit at that moment. Almost marched back to the ship and knocked on the door til she let him in, then apologized.

But then, unbidden, her voice rose in his memory.  _ Wouldn’t want you to be late for the show! _

All the sleepless nights he’d spent at work, or on the way home from work, helping to allocate resources and carry word from the chancellor to the Coruscant Guard and back again. All the brave people he knew who’d fallen—who were  _ still _ falling—to clone ambushes, who’d been in the path of the  _ Charybdis _ when it came down. All the years etched into Palpatine’s face, the slight tremble in his voice when he grew tired, the hollows under his eyes from the sheer exhaustion of staying up nearly as often as Anakin did to try to do what needed to be done to make the planet safer.

And she thought it was all to satisfy Palpatine’s  _ whims. _

No matter what he did, it would never be enough. No matter what  _ Palpatine  _ sacrificed, it would never be enough.

He should have stormed back. Shouted at her that no, there  _ was _ no show, he’d been asked to attend a vital intelligence meeting. Let her sit with her accusation and feel guilty. But even as the childish thought crossed his mind, it died.

Instead, an overwhelming desire welled within him to talk with Palpatine. To look into the man’s fatherly eyes as he reassured Anakin that of course, what they did  _ mattered _ . Was saving lives.

But he couldn’t, not yet. The meeting wasn’t set to start for another three hours yet—something he hadn’t had time to explain before he was off the  _ Dancer _ and storming for his speeder. And right now if he had to spend three hours killing time he thought he would scream.

A faint tinnitus ring had filled his ears, and he shook his head to try and clear it. Now that was odd—in all the times he’d been angry in the past, never once had it been enough to induce  _ ringing _ in—

Wait. It wasn’t his ears at all. It was his comm.

The nasty part of him, a part he was ashamed of even as it spoke, told him it was probably Padmé calling to apologize. Told him not to take it. But then he breathed out, one more time, and Anakin Skywalker flooded back in. Anakin Skywalker wasn’t about to refuse to answer his comm—not when it could be Palpatine, or the Coruscant Guard, or someone else asking for help that he could provide. Switching it to  _ Accept _ with his flesh hand, he cleared his throat and spoke. “Hello?”

“ _ I. Ah . . . hello, Anakin. _ ”

It was the voice that had left a message on his comm what seemed like an eternity ago. The voice that had spoken in his head just moments before.

Anakin was suddenly intensely aware of his body—his mouth gone instantly dry, his heart hammering beneath his breastplate, his cheeks flushing red. Before he could weigh a response, he’d simply breathed out, “Obi-Wan.”

Silence persisted on either end of the call for several seconds. Before he could convince himself this was a dream, something unreal, Anakin forced himself to speak again. “I—it’s great to hear from you. It’s . . . it’s great to hear from you.”

Obi-Wan’s reply came all in a rush, as though he were afraid if he didn’t get it out it wouldn’t come. “ _ I know you must be extremely busy, but if you have a moment—would you care to catch up? At . . . well, at my place. Not the Temple, my . . . well, proper residence. I don’t know that you’ve ever been.  _ I  _ haven’t been there, for a long . . . anyway, I’ve got some, erm, mechanical problems I’ve been working on and I could use a hand . . . _ ”

Once again, the line was silent. Then Obi-Wan said, quietly, “ _ It’s been far too long. I’m sorry for that. _ ”

All the words that had run through his head, that he’d wanted to say to his old friend these last two years, passed across his tongue.  _ You bastard, why did you wait so long, _ or  _ Did I only matter to you because I was a Jedi _ , or  _ I miss you I miss you I miss you— _

Aloud, he simply said, “Ahh—yeah, I’ve got a couple hours. You’ll send me the coordinates?”

“ _ Wonderful, _ ” replied the Jedi, in an exhalation of what sounded like relief. “ _ Yes, in just a moment. _ ”

He licked his lips, swallowed. “Great, on my way.”

Before the other man could reply, Anakin had hung up.

It was a stupid idea. He’d made a clean break, from all of it. There was still time. He could call Obi-Wan back and tell him it would have to wait for another day, another time, and then never follow up.

But Padmé was right. It had been a long time since he’d acted on one of his stupid ideas. And surely just an hour’s visit couldn’t change anything.

When he went to disengage the speeder’s lock, he saw he’d made up his mind before he was even aware of doing so. He was already out of the warehouse, in the air, engines roaring as he pushed the throttle to maximum.

Headed for his friend.

* * *

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: JEDI ORDER COMMUNICATION NETWORK** _

To facilitate discreet and secure communication among its members, the Jedi Order maintains a massive intergalactic communication network. What began as a series of dead drop locations and message carrier droids now exists as a sprawling technological web connecting most planets in the Republic and even several outside its borders—though the old-fashioned methods of swapping messages still persist as well, and are preferred by some Jedi even today. 

Dedicated holonet channels—which piggyback onto official Republic commwaves and are installed by Knights who have secretly integrated into government positions—carry video messages for the Order. As an emergency backup, an encrypted text-only channel is maintained which connects the Jedi Temple to each of the Order’s secret Enclaves. 

For Jedi who make their home within the Temple or an Enclave, a collection of virtual holonet mail addresses and physical safehouses are maintained. This allows each Jedi to display an illusion of normal life within the Republic as needed, providing them with an address to give potential employers, acquaintances, and family members who remain unaware of their affiliation with the Jedi. These addresses are cycled in and out of use with great frequency for security reasons. 

The Order’s communication network is maintained by Jedi Technicians under the supervision of the Jedi Quartermaster—though it enjoys an additional degree of oversight by the head Archivist. The privacy of individual Jedi is respected to a degree, but messages are archived at the Temple should they ever need to be opened and reviewed by a Council of Jedi Masters.


	9. Anakin and Obi-Wan (Part II: Ties That Bind)

The coordinates Obi-Wan had given him turned out to be for a fairly out-of-the-way apartment building located near the Works, unassuming enough that it didn’t even have a speeder garage—Anakin parked in a lot just across the way. As he strolled from his vehicle to the main entrance, he craned his neck to look upward, taking in the relative darkness. “Nightfall” was never something that ever truly hit Coruscant—the accumulated light pollution of the planet’s trillion inhabitants was enough to render a view of the stars a distant dream—but this district was evidently quiet enough to have a sky dark-gray enough to pass for black. There was still a distant roar of traffic, but it was faint enough that you could every now and then hear the fading whisper of a gentle breeze. No doubt Obi-Wan had chosen the location partly for this lack of volume.

Ordinarily this kind of quiet would eat at him. But for once Anakin wasn’t thinking about the ringing silence in his head, the emptiness around him.

He was thinking about what lay on the other side of the apartment building’s entrance.

For one absurd minute, he just stood a few dozen meters from the main entrance—double transparisteel doors framed by a pair of artificial stone columns.  _ You could still give up. Just turn around and head back to the speeder. He probably hasn’t seen you yet. _

One foot strayed toward the lot, and then he was closing the rest of the distance between him and the building. As he walked, his pace picked up, to the point that he was restraining himself from jogging by the time he reached the doors.

Before he could place a hand on them, they were opening outward.

For just a moment, he wondered who it could be in front of him. He had almost never, he realized in the space of that instant, seen Obi-Wan without sensing him—that final evening of him, Padmé, and his old master together at the couple’s apartment had been the only time. To perceive him and  _ not _ to perceive him, to see him without true sight, felt uncanny, alien, like looking at a perfect projected image.

Only it wasn’t perfect, not really. Obi-Wan had changed. Not by much. A bit more grey in his beard, the lines in his face etched a degree deeper. But it wasn’t the person Anakin remembered.  _ I wonder, _ he thought,  _ how much of me he’s seeing for the first time too. _

Then Obi-Wan’s beard split into a smile, and Anakin felt his own grin emerge. “Master Kenobi,” he said, giving a slight nod.

“Anakin.” A single word, breathed out almost as if in pleasant surprise.  _ My goodness,  _ it seemed to say,  _ it’s really you after all. _

The two just stood there for a moment longer, Obi-Wan propping the door open with his arm, Anakin shifting his boots back and forth. Then the Jedi chuckled sheepishly and gestured with his free hand. “Come in, it’s cold out there.”

Anakin came.

* * *

The short turbolift ride to Obi-Wan’s floor was spent mostly in awkward anticipatory silence, each of them decidedly pleased to see the other—at least, Obi-Wan  _ hoped _ Anakin shared this feeling—but waiting for someone else to make the first move. Finally, as they neared his floor, the Jedi cleared his throat and said, “I almost asked you to see me at the Temple, but I didn’t know that you’d . . . that you’d care to come.”

Anakin gave a polite smile. “Best if I don’t. Besides, if Master Nu or Master Drallig saw me there I think I’d be in danger.”

He forced a chuckle through the sinking feeling that had come over him. “Trust me,  _ I’m _ still in danger around those two.” 

There had always been an effortlessness to his friend’s speech. As if he were incapable of taking any situation entirely seriously, as if beneath the words was always that crooked Skywalker grin. For Obi-Wan, it had always stirred up a mixture of affection and exasperation, a constant desire for his student to be serious and an inability to truly be angry with him. Now when he spoke he sounded . . . lost. As if he too remembered that former easy grin and was vaguely bemused to discover it was no longer there.

The pattern repeated itself all over him. His steps seemed imperceptibly heavier, his eyes robbed of a sparkle you’d never think to look for if you hadn’t seen it before.

They’d both grown old before their time, thought Obi-Wan. And they’d done it apart.

Mercifully, the lift doors parted. “At any rate . . .” Obi-Wan asked, sweeping his arm outward in a mock-dramatic gesture whose humor he didn’t really feel, “. . . shall we take a tour?”

Not that there was much to see. Much like his former quarters on the  _ Coelacanth _ or his bunk at the Jedi Temple, Obi-Wan preferred to keep this place simple and neat. A small shelf of old paper books sat in one corner of the main room; there was a chair, a couch, and a meditation rug. On one wall hung a painting he’d liked a few years ago; on the other, a window opened to the Coruscant skyline. “It’s very, ah, brown,” Anakin cracked, running a hand along the couch. “What exactly’s the point of paying for a second home if you’re not gonna use it?”

“Well, I don’t pay for it, technically,” Obi-Wan confided. “The Temple keeps residences on hand for all of us who live on the planet to keep up appearances. You never needed one because you live with Padmé.” Even as he said it the information sounded callous, but it was too late to take it back. Just another reminder of the thing they’d once shared and that was now a wedge.

When Anakin replied, he did sound faintly stung, but not by the reference to the Jedi. “How come you never told me about this place?” he asked, eyes roaming around the bare furnishings. “I’d have . . . I don’t know, invited myself over for dinner. Bought you a really tacky plant or something.”

“Well,” the answer sounding lame even as he said it, “I’ll be honest with you, Anakin—I’ve only been here a few times myself.” When he’d opened up the door and stepped inside this afternoon, after the conversation with Luminara and Qlik, it had been the first time in months. “You know me, I prefer being at the Temple. But”—and here he cast about for the first easy lie that came to him, hating himself even as the words left his mouth—“until Master Drallig is convinced of Temple security, she thought it might be best for the Jedi on Coruscant to spread ourselves out some more.” 

Anakin’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Wait, convinced of your security? The CIS didn’t make it to the Temple, did they?”

“Oh no, you needn’t worry about us. But with the possibility of clones still being out there, and the damage they could do if they discovered this place . . . well. Many in the Temple would like to make safety the watchword of the Order for the time being.” That in and of itself was the truth, but it was what he’d left unsaid that made Obi-Wan want to blush with guilt.  _ However, Master Drallig’s idea of safety is for the Temple to stay locked down, not to disperse. I’m here because it’s not safe for someone with a government summons to be spending his nights in the Jedi Order’s lodgings. _

Nodding, Anakin shot an intent look back at the painting on the wall, as though suddenly suspicious of it. “Well, I don’t think they’ll be making the Classical District a priority. Intelligence traced most of the activity we haven’t accounted for yet to the Underworld.”

“Ah yes!” the Jedi said, seizing upon this suddenly concrete diversion. “Tell me about what you’re doing in your job. You’ve got two years’ worth of stories to tell, I’m sure.”

He’d hoped his old friend would perk up at this—Anakin had always liked telling stories in the old days, whether they entailed past adventures or were simply colorful explanations of how a piece of tech worked. Instead, the younger man tensed as though Obi-Wan had accused him of something. After a moment, he relaxed his shoulders with a visible effort and said, “Nah, you know me. Politics bore me, I was just unlucky enough to have the chancellor like me.”

“Surely he doesn’t just have you working in politics.” As Obi-Wan said this, he wondered if that was a touch of desperation in his voice,  _ then _ wondered why he was stumbling over every sentence even when he wasn’t hiding the truth.  _ Surely it’s just that it’s been so long. That it’s always awkward when friends who’ve been apart for a long time come back together. _ It wasn’t that he was trying to . . . to  _ bait _ Anakin into talking about Palpatine.

Luminara’s voice.  _ Maybe Skywalker knows something. _

“Trust me,” said Anakin, suddenly forceful, “I’m just an errand boy. Like I was with you, officially, only without the fun parts.” He hadn’t raised his voice much, but in the muffled space of the apartment the extra volume mattered.

Something entered his face then—an emotion Obi-Wan couldn’t sense through the Force but didn’t need to. He’d come to know Anakin’s face, his responses, and their time apart had done nothing at all to rust that knowledge—Anakin was afraid. Not of the chancellor, but of  _ himself _ . Of the possibility that his brief lapse in control had just broken the tentative truce they’d only just formed.

Seeing that, Obi-Wan felt his stomach twist in on itself.  _ He trusts you, _ said a voice that at once was and wasn’t his own.  _ After all this time. _

The younger man’s words came out all in a rush, as without seeming to realize he took a step closer to Obi-Wan. “So what are things like with  _ you _ ? You can’t tell me you’ve been up to nothing.”

Obi-Wan thought of the summons. Qlik and Luminara’s nervous faces. The murmurs and hisses throughout the Temple in the aftermath of Palpatine’s announcement of the new Grand Army. Mace Windu’s certainty that something was wrong, and Anakin could be the key to unraveling it.

_ Always in motion the future is,  _ he heard Yoda say.  _ Here and now is where you may know, and act. _

He let it all go.

“Well,” he said, letting a touch of storyteller’s enjoyment sink into his own voice, “officially I lead a rather boring existence as well. Consulting with Bail, enjoying my retirement from Typhoon. Off the books . . .”

* * *

It was right around the time that Obi-Wan was reaching the climax of his third tale of adventure—something involving a blackmail plot, a village in need of food, and a nest of gundarks—that Anakin felt himself break into a chuckle.

His old master broke off, smiling, and raised an eyebrow. “Am I  _ amusing _ to you?”

“Sorry, it’s just”—he turned away for a moment, faking an intense interest in the wallpaper long enough to wipe his face serious—“you didn’t think of maybe bringing a rope?”

“I had my hands full with my lightsaber and the grenades,” Obi-Wan shot back, the not-entirely-fake note of defensiveness making Anakin bite down on his lip to restrain another laugh. “If my pack hadn’t had a hole ripped in it two days prior then  _ perhaps— _ ”

Anakin let loose a great snort of amusement, coughed, then laughed again. There was something warm behind his chest, and whatever it was was making it very hard for him to stop—he was certain the two were connected even though he had no idea what the sensation was.

Then Obi-Wan was softly chuckling too. “I suppose I was rather silly, yes,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “Seems to be my curse—whenever I operate alone I end up needing someone to rescue me.” His expression brightened, as though he’d just remembered something important. “Ah! Which reminds me, the reason I asked you here. If you’d be so kind as to follow me to the kitchen, you’ll find what I need rescuing from.”

The sight that greeted him as he rounded the kitchen counter made Anakin swear softly. “Holy  _ hell _ , Obi-Wan, what is this?”

“Well, as I explained,” said the Jedi, sounding embarrassed, “I don’t come back here much, which means that when I arrived today the refrigerator unit wasn’t working. I tried to get it back in proper order, and I . . . didn’t.”

That was one way of putting it. Wiring snaked out from behind the fridge and unspooled across the floor as though Obi-Wan had disemboweled the thing. Pieces of disassembled metal were scattered across the tile at their feet and the counter, and all the interior racks lay haphazardly along the wall. A toolbox sat reluctantly against the open fridge door, looking like a dwarf facing a giant.

Anakin gave a peal of horrified laughter that rang through the kitchen. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Grinning, he knelt down, careful not to step on any of the components at his feet. “Get me a wrench, will ya?”

First things first, a hefty length of electrical tape had to be wrapped around one of the wires, which Obi-Wan had somehow inadvertently slashed with a screwdriver by the looks of it. Then the real work began—the Jedi had managed to disassemble not any part of the fridge that would get at the problem but the majority of its lower base, which meant the chassis was in danger of pitching forward. “You are never allowed to touch anything metal ever again,” Anakin said, trying to work out how  _ that _ particular screw had even come undone. “Ever.”

This continued for the next half-hour—putting back together the things Obi-Wan had destroyed for no reason, then fixing the  _ right _ things, his master handing him the proper tools and making defensive comments as to his mechanical aptitude. 

As he fell into the rhythm of his work, Anakin found himself hesitant to talk too loudly, as though doing so would break some spell. All the time apart, the time spent wondering what Obi-Wan was doing, where he was, whether he was wondering the same about Anakin, rolled off his shoulders like a stone worn smooth. It felt as though, were he to close his eyes, when he opened them again the two of them would be standing not in an apartment kitchen but in the mess hall of the  _ Coelacanth _ , on their way to yet another adventure that would leave them with new scars and new stories to tell.

Finally, it was finished. Anakin shoved himself up off the floor and admired the now gently humming hunk of metal, then wiped at his brow with his flesh hand. “Next time just call me  _ before _ you try to fix it, huh?”

Chuckling and taking in the restored unit himself, Obi-Wan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Well, as we were saying earlier, perhaps neither of us was cut out for solo operations, whether they’re adventures or repairs. At least you’ve still got Padmé to pull you out of whatever scrapes you manage to land yourself in.”

Instantly his mind flitted back to the warehouse, to the  _ Spice Dancer _ , and a cold wad of guilt plunked into his stomach. Almost as suddenly, a hot wave of anger rose to meet it—not here, not now, he wasn’t going to let what had just happened ruin  _ this _ now. With one part of his mind, he visualized his anger as a hand forcing the guilt down below an ocean surface; with the other, he summoned the quickest out he could think of. “So what, you’re still waiting on your next student to help pull you out of fires?”

Obi-Wan’s hand slid off Anakin’s shoulder. He blinked once, a quick sharp motion, as though reacting to something striking him on the forehead. He hesitated just long enough for Anakin to notice; then, he replied with a casual tone so free of care that Anakin knew it wasn’t real, “Oh, I haven’t taken another student.” Another hesitation; then, rapidly, “I thought it best to wait until the war was over, you see. Especially with all the Knights needed right now. As long as the conflict continues to drag on, I don’t see myself being in a place where I can devote energy to teaching.”

It was, Anakin knew even without sensing what was going on underneath the Jedi’s skin, a true explanation provided to hide some deeper secret. He didn’t want to press Obi-Wan, but some stubborn part of him couldn’t just let it go—wanted his friend to just say  _ It’s because I still miss you.  _ “Not everyone can be a quick study like me, huh.”

Obi-Wan gave a chuckle then, his guarded cheer giving way once again to genuine warmth. “You certainly learned by doing. Not all the right lessons, I fear.” He sighed and shook his head, looking at some point far off in the distance. “When I first started teaching you, my master told me I could do as good a job as he could. But I think you grew as much as you did in spite of me, if I’m honest.”

In that moment, Obi-Wan looked . . . small.

Anakin had been reflexively preparing to fire back a piece of banter, something Obi-Wan could catch and lob back at him. Instead, he studied his old master’s slightly slumped form, the distance in his eyes. And said, softly, “I wouldn’t sell yourself short.”

Obi-Wan looked into his eyes with intense gratitude and something like . . . well, something like Anakin saw in Padmé’s eyes on a good day, or Palpatine’s. Suddenly Anakin felt, more than anything, a consuming desire to  _ share _ what his friend felt—to truly  _ understand _ it, as he had so many times before when he could still touch the people he was connected to. To experience Obi-Wan’s gratefulness flooding through his own mind like a warm current, the two of them united by their bond, by the power that bound them to each other and to everything else in existence.

Then Obi-Wan swallowed, paused, and asked: “Have you ever . . . thought about coming back?”

* * *

Looking back, Obi-Wan would wonder if the words had been his or something else moving through him. He’d had no intention whatsoever of asking Anakin the question before it left his lips, and as Anakin’s eyes had widened in surprise he’d felt shock coursing through his own mind.

Asked, however, it could not be taken back. And if Obi-Wan had posed the question, the least he could do was make his case.

“Things are . . . difficult, as of late,” he said, weighing how far to go in admitting the state of the Temple after the CIS attack and how much to keep in reserve to spare his Order’s dignity. “Even before the attack, there have been some who want the Order to focus on protecting its own. And while I don’t agree with them, it’s hard to deny that the war is spreading us thin. Knights and healers are trying to cover too much. And . . .”

For a moment, he hesitated. There was no set rule on which of the Order’s secrets should remain secrets—still, Obi-Wan knew what “too far” was, and what he was about to say definitively crossed that line.  _ But Anakin faced him twice. Jedi or not, he’s earned the right to know. _

“Maul has been eluding us,” he said, dropping his voice to a register barely above a whisper. For the space of a second he thought he felt the dark side’s chill, and though he knew Anakin could no longer touch that feeling, he saw the shadow that passed across his old friend’s face. “It’s why more and more of the Order have been pulled off the battlefield. We’ve been dispatching Knights to find him and end the war, and none have come back.”

It was extremely difficult to sense the emotions of someone who’d cut themselves off from the Force—the fingers of Obi-Wan’s perceptions could touch Anakin’s aura, but they skidded and slipped as though his presence were an oil slick. Still, he could see the way Anakin’s jaw tightened at the thought of Maul, the way his mechanical fist clenched unconsciously. Aloud, when the young man asked, “How many has he . . .” his voice was a croak.

There was no point in being delicate. “At least a dozen. Probably more.”

Anakin let out a long slow exhalation. “Shit.” He looked past Obi-Wan, out the window, in the direction of a place neither of them could see.  _ Capitol Plaza _ , Obi-Wan thought. The spot where Maul and Valis’s flagship had come hurtling down, and killed . . . thousands? “And you . . . what. You think I could stop him?”

He could have chosen to frame it delicately. But he owed Anakin honesty. “I think you are the person I know who stands the best chance.”

Anger Obi-Wan would have understood. Would have accepted, and even been glad for. But when Anakin replied, there was something else in his voice—a deep, low fear of the kind Obi-Wan had only encountered when they’d first talked about this on Had Abbadon so many years ago. “You know why I walked away. Why I  _ had  _ to. It’s bad for me, Obi-Wan.” He returned his gaze to the Jedi’s, his eyes filled with a raw hurt that made it clear he had thought about this offer long before Obi-Wan had made it. “The last thing I did as a Jedi was let thousands of people die.” He laughed then, a terrible scoffing sound. “Guess Maul and Valis and I are about even, huh?”

A few years ago, Obi-Wan would have tried to debate it. Would have said  _ All of us who were there share the blame—I think about it every day.  _ Or  _ The Confederacy pulled the trigger. It’s not your fault you couldn’t get the city out of the way in time.  _ But he knew from his own nightmares about Serenno that those responses weren’t enough, were insulting.  _ You led me here,  _ he said to the Force.  _ Show me what to say. _

And then, after his silence had stretched on long enough that the hum of the refrigerator unit had become audible, he looked at Anakin and said, “Follow me.”

* * *

Obi-Wan’s bedroom was as simple as the rest of the apartment—a bunk, a  _ second _ meditation rug (for those occasions when one simply had to ponder the mysteries of the Force on blue fabric rather than red, Anakin thought but didn’t say), a dresser, and a desk. Atop the desk was something Anakin recognized. Obi-Wan indicated it with a slight tilt of his head. “Do you remember when we made this?”

In spite of himself, Anakin felt a bemused smile cross his face. “You kept it?”

The old backup saber lay there gleaming in the lamplight, shiny enough that Anakin suspected it had been recently polished. Looking at it, he almost wanted to laugh—the pair of them had assembled it under an onslaught of compromises, since it could have ended up being used by either of them. It had the quickdraw D-ring Anakin favored sprouting from one side of its pommel, but on the other Obi-Wan had affixed the locking mechanism that would join it securely to his own belt. The grips were the tapered rubber that allowed Anakin’s mechanical hand not to grind against the hilt, but to accommodate Obi-Wan’s lighter touch they were so delicate that they looked almost comical. Even its length was an in-between, balanced so it could be either a heavy one-handed sword or a light two-hander.

Before he’d realized what he was doing, Anakin had picked it up with his flesh hand, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingertips.

“It’s been mine ever since I lost the old one,” his old master admitted, a trace of embarrassment in his voice. “I didn’t want to waste time building another one fresh, and . . . there’s something about this one. The best of both of us,” he finished softly, watching Anakin run his fingers along the hilt.

He knew better than to ask, but before he could stop himself he already had. “So what’d you do with mine? Cycle it into the armory?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “I keep it with my things at the Temple like you asked.” He gave a chuckle that wasn’t really amused at all, but wistful. “At times, I tell myself it’s . . . in case you ever need it again.”

And if Anakin were honest with himself, he’d pictured it again and again after he’d pressed the weapon into Obi-Wan’s hands—what it would feel like to pick it up again, heft the familiar weight first with his flesh hand and then with his mechanical one, then press the activation switch and watch the blue blade burst to life. He’d dreamed of it—and in those dreams, though there was no logical connection between the two, when he’d brought forth the lightsaber’s hiss of energy he’d feel the sudden warmth of the Force flood into him and through him.

Even now, he felt his thumb straying toward the green backup saber’s switch. Felt the muscles in his arms tense as he prepared to summon emerald plasma.

Then he blinked, and behind his eyes he saw platforms falling from the sky.

Gently, careful not to scratch the finish, he lowered the lightsaber back on the desk. “Some dream, huh.”

When he looked back to Obi-Wan, pain had filled the Jedi’s eyes, so much that Anakin almost moved to take it back. But then his old master smiled that sad smile he wore with such experience and said, “You’re the best man I’ve ever known, Anakin. And you know where I believe you can do the most good. If ever you agree with me again . . . just know I’ll have it in safekeeping.”

* * *

“And where are you off to after this?” Obi-Wan asked a few minutes later, doing his best to inject a note of cheer into his voice.

Anakin, attempting the same, replied, “Oh, like I said, I’m an errand boy. Chancellor has me looking over some new defense materials with him and some bigwigs. Equipment for the new army.”

_ Ah yes. That.  _ Yet another in the long catalog of things the Jedi Order had on its mind these days, one the part of Obi-Wan that was still a Defense Force general rankled at even more than the rest of him. He knew without asking what Anakin’s feelings on the matter would be.

Aloud, he said, “I suppose improved armaments will come in handy in case further defense is needed. I do hope it won’t be, but what with rumors of clones in the Underworld and this investigation that’s being conducted—”

Anakin turned around sharply, and a second too late Obi-Wan realized what he’d said.

“Investigation?” his old apprentice asked, sounding taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

It had been a genuine slip—he’d given up any intention of coaxing information out of Anakin—but at the same time . . . he’d just assumed Anakin would  _ know _ about any investigations in progress, if Palpatine had been the one to start them.

“I . . . well, I . . .” he stuttered, aware that every passing second of his failing to give a coherent reply left him looking worse. “The Temple was made aware,” he finally managed, doing his best not to look as though he were wincing away from Anakin’s suddenly alarmed expression, “that the Office of Special Investigations is conducting an inquiry into Maul and Valis’s attack.” And then, because lying about his own involvement would only make things worse, “In fact, I’ve been asked to make a statement.”

“I—wait.” His old friend’s eyes narrowed. “ _ You’ve _ been asked?”

“I imagine they’re simply consulting me in my role as ex-general,” he replied, horrified at the false lightness of his explanation even as the words came spilling out of his mouth. “And as someone who has a good deal of experience with combating Maul and Valis. I only mentioned it because I assumed you—”

“What?” The word was sharp, almost barked, and Obi-Wan realized with increasing alarm of his own that he didn’t know whether this was because Anakin was angry at not knowing about the investigation or angry because he knew Obi-Wan was lying about why he thought he’d been called in.

Though he refrained from squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to take a long breath and stop letting words form through panicked reflex. “I should not have presumed to know what the chancellor keeps you informed upon. I apologize.”

As if belatedly realizing in turn how visibly he’d reacted, Anakin took a faintly shaky breath in turn and shook his head. “Nah, it’s . . . it’s fine. I’m sorry.” And then, before Obi-Wan could say anything, he had turned around and put his hand on the door. “I need to get going, I’ll be late for Palpatine.”

“Anakin, I—” He pleaded with the Force for the right words.

Silence was his answer.

As Anakin turned around, Obi-Wan extended his hand. “Thank you,” was all he could say. “Thank you for coming.”

For a moment he hoped it would be enough. But the hesitation in Anakin’s eyes died with a quick blink, and then he was gripping Obi-Wan’s hand with his mechanical limb as though afraid he’d break it. “Yeah, thanks for having me,” he said. “Lemme know if that kitchen gives you any more trouble, yeah?”

Even as the reply formed on Obi-Wan’s lips, his old friend had swept out into the hallway.

The Jedi Master stood there for a long time afterward, staring through the open doorway as though waiting. Eventually, he shook his head as if to wake himself from a dream, then knelt on the meditation rug beneath his feet and tried to meditate.

As was happening more and more often lately, nothing came.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: DISTRICTS OF CORUSCANT – THE WORKS** _

_ [excerpt from “Districts of Coruscant,” a historical guide by tourism writer Merino Trinduar] _

The Works began life as a company town, a massive plot of Coruscanti property owned by Brinafair Steelworks Development Corporation. Apartments, restaurants, shopping centers, and factories were all constructed by Brinafair Steelworks, who had the intention of mining and repurposing the abandoned buildings in Coruscant’s lower city layers. 

The project was doomed before it began. Brinafair, an offworld corporation from the Mid Rim, had done insufficient research prior to their purchase of the property. The buildings below their newly purchased space had long since been stripped by the scavengers of the Underworld. Their company town—which had by then picked up the nickname it still bears today—was sold piecemeal for a fraction of what Brinafair had paid for it, dooming the company to extinction. 

Today the industrial styling of the buildings remains in place, a reminder of the ill-fated company that constructed The Works. Factories have been converted into power plants, though most other buildings retain their original purpose. Most of the property on the outskirts of The Works is relatively affordable by Coruscant standards. At the center of the district, a resurgence of independent shops and luxury craft businesses has caused the cost of living to increase considerably—the “Central Works” have become a destination for young and affluent Coruscanti professionals. 


	10. With Real Power (Part II: Ties That Bind)

Though Coruscant’s sun predictably set over the eastern horizon each evening, the coral glows it painted between the spires and skyscrapers of the planet’s skyline were always replaced with a different sort of light—the diffuse glow of illuminated windows laced through a chilled evening fog. Tonight, Anakin found himself staring at the twilight glow through the panorama window of the Executive Office. Four members of Palpatine’s administration— _ people with real power,  _ a voice in his head was quick to remind him—sat across from each other, gathered around the central furniture of the office suite while the chancellor himself looked on from his desk. 

Anakin had received remarkably little instruction before the meeting began.  _ You’ll stand over there _ , Palpatine had told him, pointing to a spot on the floor at his right hand and slightly behind. 

_ And what?  _ Anakin had wanted to say—though he’d kept the retort to himself.  _ Look menacing? Eavesdrop? Make notes on their body language? Perhaps memorize their office addresses so I can hand deliver thank-you notes and gift baskets tomorrow morning?  _

He’d settled for silence, merely staring out the window at ground zero of the Confederacy’s attack. The scar still ran through Capitol Plaza where the  _ Charybdis  _ had left its mark, and as his mind wandered to earlier this evening—to Obi-Wan’s invitation—he wondered how the Classical District had fared. How many more districts on Coruscant looked like this one. How many more across the galaxy might come to resemble it unless he went out there and stopped Maul himself. 

_ How many more might come to resemble it  _ because  _ of you going after Maul?  _

The intrusive thought was mercifully short lived, as a chorus of voices turned Anakin’s eyes toward the center of the room. One rose above the rest—shrewd and nasal, it was an unsettling mismatch for the man it belonged to. Armand Isard—head of the Senate Bureau of Intelligence—sat toward the edge of his chair with one ankle perched atop the opposite knee. 

Everything about him—save his voice—carried a certain harshness to it; from the streak of gray that permeated his otherwise jet black head of hair, to his sharp jawline, to his white-accented dress uniform that looked as though he’d ironed it mere minutes before the meeting. “These are the facts, I’m afraid. The Confederacy we’ve been fighting no longer exists as a cohesive whole.” 

“You cannot possibly expect us to treat every remnant of the Confederacy as a separate enemy state!” This voice belonged to Sate Pestage—longtime advisor to Palpatine, Pestage had served alongside the chancellor as far back as his planetary government career on Naboo. Though they didn’t get along, Anakin had the mildest amount of fondness for the man—if only because Pestage often ended up with a bulk of the more dreary political work that could have otherwise fallen on him. 

Pestage’s outburst seemed to have opened up a gap in the conversation, one which the man jumped into so he could keep speaking. “We would have to declare war on every single faction.”

“Congress declares war, Pestage, not you!” Mas Amedda interrupted—the window near Anakin vibrated as the Speaker of the Senate’s voice boomed throughout the room. 

Turning back toward the window, Anakin allowed himself to tune out the conversation. Listening to politicians arguing at the tops of their voices was hardly the best use of his time.  _ You could be out there _ , he thought to himself.  _ Fighting back. Making a difference.  _

_ Killing Maul?  _ a voice whispered in the back of his head, as if to draw him closer to taking the plunge. All he’d have to do is pull out his commlink and call Obi-Wan, and he’d be away from this life. No more errands. No more meet-and-greets or media appearances.

But one word, a word that was seared into his brain for all eternity, was all it took to bring the thought crashing down.  _ Serenno.  _

And then he was back in the present, back to reality, as Armand Isard explained precisely  _ why  _ Senate Intelligence was so convinced that Maul and Valis had gone rogue. A forensic team had, it seemed, discovered bodies aboard the  _ Charybdis.  _ The bodies of the CIS Executive Board. 

Sate Pestage huffed and threw his hands up in the air. “This proves nothing. They could have simply brought the Board with them to Coruscant as passengers. They were, after all, intent on taking over the planet. One would have needed a governing body to install.” 

Isard’s jaw hardened. “I am most certain that is not the case, Pestage. The Board members were dead before the ship crashed.” 

This seemed to suck the air out of the room for all but one of the occupants—Sapir of Kuat, the feather-crested avian who served as Palpatine’s Vice Chair, had said hardly a word since the meeting began. Now, Anakin could see, her headcrest was deepening in color, growing a rich blue. The hue meant nothing to Anakin, but the Fosh’s body language was enough for anyone to see that she had finally found reason to speak up. 

“You’re leaving out a rather critical piece of information, don’t you think, Director Isard?” 

Anakin’s eyes darted to Isard—who had slid back quite substantially in his chair. “Madame Vice Chair, I really don’t—”

“You tell them, Armand, or I will.” As Sapir interrupted the man, her feathers bloomed in a waving color pattern that resembled a windswept flame. 

This seemed to humble him into submission—tilting his head toward the floor, Isard spoke. “The Board members were all killed before the  _ Charybdis  _ was deorbited. Forensics found each of them”—he paused, clearing his throat as though he were struggling to get the words out—“bisected by a plasma cutting torch.” 

The news lingered in the air for a moment. As he continued to stare out the window, Anakin could hear one of them— _ probably Pestage— _ gag a little at the thought. “Not a plasma torch,” Anakin said without thinking, not speaking up or turning to face the room’s occupants. “A lightsaber. He used one on Had Abbadon and Serenno.” 

A fraction of a second passed before Anakin realized what he said—and in the time he found himself staring even harder out the window, wishing he could somehow turn back time, or that he would wake up on the  _ Spice Dancer  _ next to Padmé and find out the entire night had been a horrible dream. 

Then it got worse. 

“Thank you, Skywalker,” the voice of the Vice Chair rang in his ears. It was enough to get Anakin to whirl away from the window and toward the room’s other occupants—just in time to see Sapir face Director Isard and raise a talon in the air. “You see, Armand?” she continued, “I’m not the only one who thinks so.” 

“So it would seem, Sapir,” Isard replied, leaning heavily into an effort to sneer as he spoke the Vice Chair’s name. Turning to glance at the rest of the room, he continued: “I’d like to state unequivocally that the intelligence community disagrees with this ridiculous assertion—”

“And if you’re wrong?” Sate Pestage said, his voice cracking as it raised. “It’s not as if rumors of Maul’s . . . peculiarities haven’t existed for years. There may be a lightsaber-wielding rogue warlord at large, one who is intent on destroying the Republic. Our Grand Army is not yet equipped to handle this! We must take action.”

Sapir’s headcrest glowed a vibrant yellow. “On that, Pestage, we can agree.”

Anakin’s mind raced as the conversation unfolded before him, and words from earlier this evening played back in his head like a recording.

_ You think I could stop him? _

_ I think you are the person I know who stands the best chance. _

Sapir was on her feet now, feathers spread as though she were ready to take flight. “We need the Jedi Order back. They’re the ones who should deal with him.” 

“Madame Vice Chair,” Mas Amedda began, his voice rumbling as he leaned in his chair to glare at Sapir. “I find it quite inappropriate that a leader within our Senate is suggesting involving an extralegal entity—”

“That is being rather generous, Mister Speaker! The intelligence community maintains that evidence for the existence of this religious order is dubious at best.” Though Armand Isard’s posture had tensed considerably, he remained seated as he interrupted Mas Amedda.

Sate Pestage waved a dismissive hand, scoffing at Isard as he rose to his feet before turning to jab a finger at the Vice Chair. “That is  _ not  _ what I meant by ‘action,’ Sapir. Let’s set aside the sheer insanity of the idea for one moment. Convincing the Jedi to return to the war is not even our first obstacle. Contacting them is. None of us know how.”

“I do,” Anakin said.

He immediately regretted it.

Sapir’s words had left the conversation teetering in delicate balance upon a dangerous precipice, and Anakin had just shoved it over the edge. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room zero in on where he stood, as the true meaning of his words likely dawned on every last one of them. Amedda and Isard, one after the other, rose from their chairs with great hesitation. Sapir even took a step toward Anakin.

“That is  _ quite  _ enough!” 

The commanding bark of Chancellor Palpatine’s voice seemed to freeze the whole room in time and space. Each individual turned to face him—Armand Isard stared at the toes of his freshly polished boots, and Sapir’s head feathers flushed a soft white hue. 

“It is clear,” Palpatine continued, not rising from his seat, “that this discussion has gone well past the point of being productive. I suggest we adjourn for the evening, and come back to this tomorrow morning.” He paused, turning to stare squarely at Sapir before continuing. “With any thoughts of involving the Jedi kept  _ firmly  _ out of mind.” 

A mumbled chorus of “yes sir”s emerged from the four people standing in front of the chancellor’s desk. Anakin kept silent. Though Palpatine hadn’t said it, he got the firm sense he wasn’t supposed to exit the office with the others. 

When the executive suite door had slammed shut behind Sate Pestage—the advisor’s walk to the exit had seemed to take an eternity—Palpatine rotated in his chair to face Anakin. The chancellor’s stare made Anakin’s stomach sink like a rock. 

“I apologize, sir,” he began with a stammer before Palpatine had a chance to reprimand him. “I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“Oh no, my boy,” Palpatine interrupted, intertwining his fingers and resting his hands in his lap. The chancellor leaned forward with intent. “I want  _ them” _ —he angled his head toward the door—“to forget about the Jedi. I’d rather like to hear what you have to say on the matter.”

* * *

He’d opened his mouth without thinking, spoken without considering what he was saying—and now Anakin would have to face the consequences. 

Repercussions within Palpatine’s inner circle, at the very least. The four government officials who’d heard him had all shot varying degrees of puzzled stares in his direction as they’d made their way toward the door. Anakin knew there would be follow-up meetings between and among all of them, and in the wake of those there would be whispered conversations and rumors spread among their staffers. By the week’s end, the whole Senate building—what remained of it, anyway—would be abuzz with the news that Palpatine’s right-hand man somehow had a direct line to the Jedi Order. 

Palpatine himself, all things considered, seemed strangely unfazed by what had just unfolded. His words to Anakin were laced not with anger, nor an underhanded scolding tone, but with genuine curiosity. “You’ve not said one good word about the Jedi since you joined my administration. And now you think you can bring them back to the front lines of the war effort. What’s changed?” 

Inside, he cursed himself for letting things get to this point. The Jedi had unavoidably come up in conversations with Palpatine over the years, and it was true—Anakin had hardly said a good word about them. He’d hardly said a word at all, instead holding fast to two rules whenever the Jedi came up around Palpatine.

_ Change the subject quickly, and never make it about yourself.  _

That, he knew, had all been thrown out the airlock now. A shred of hope dashed across his mind as he remembered Armand Isard’s words—a pointed insistence that the Jedi didn’t exist. Clinging to that, pretending he agreed with the head of the intelligence community, offered a possible way out. 

Except it didn’t. He and Palpatine had talked about Isard’s beliefs before, in one of their awkward conversations where Anakin had danced around the topic of the Jedi.  _ In denial,  _ Palpatine had called him.  _ These days you’d have to be a fool not to see the signs.  _ Not to mention Anakin had said definitively that he could contact them. Not  _ I can if they exist. _

Anakin stammered for a few seconds, trying to find his footing and the right words. “I just think Sapir and Pestage made some good points. Maul is at large, and the Jedi are well equipped to deal with him.”

A puff of air escaped Palpatine’s nose, and his eyes widened a hair. “You don’t really believe that, do you? They’ve had this whole war to dispatch Maul, and they’ve yet to do it.”

Anakin fought to keep a grimace from forming on his face. The closest anyone had gotten to killing Maul was back at the beginning of the war, on Had Abbadon—and  _ he’d  _ been the one responsible for that, not a Jedi. 

Obi-Wan’s voice once again echoed in his head— _ the person I know who stands the best chance.  _ It wasn’t just any Jedi who could stop Maul. It was one man.  _ Me _ . 

_ You can’t just tell Palpatine everything,  _ Anakin thought to himself  _ Not after all this time. He wouldn’t understand.  _

_ But why wouldn’t he? _ The chancellor had been understanding about everything else. He’d hired a man who had grown up on a rusted-out space station, survived childhood by pickpocketing traders and his teenage years by swindling freighter pilots out of the credits they’d earned on their latest haul. Anakin had stolen ships and speeders, robbed stores and corporations, and now he stood at the right hand of the most powerful man in the galaxy. 

Palpatine had looked the other way at his criminal record. He’d looked the other way as Anakin’s wife repeatedly fired drive-by insults during the state dinners she’d been unfortunate enough to receive an invite to. He’d looked the other way as Anakin had been at the epicenter of the most catastrophic diplomatic incident in the last century. He’d understood all of that.

_ Why wouldn’t he understand this?  _

“I,” Anakin began, choking on the first word—the prolonged silence had seen his throat go dry. “Chancellor, there’s something I need to tell you.

“The reason I know how to contact the Jedi is because I used to be one.” 

The corners of Palpatine’s mouth seemed to be tugged downward by an invisible force; the lines on his forehead grew more pronounced as he scrunched his brow and his eyes drifted to one side.

Dread welled up within Anakin as silence stretched and dragged on.

Then, finally, the chancellor spoke. 

“My boy, I know.” 

A black hole sprang into being in the pit of his stomach, dragging Anakin down into the abyss. His head swirled, the edges of his vision became a blur, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to slip into unconsciousness or throw up all over the chancellor’s robes. 

“Contacting the Jedi,” Palpatine continued, “is not my concern. I was more interested in why you suddenly seem to believe we need them to return to fighting our wars for us.” 

Anakin ignored the query. He’d managed to find his voice, if only enough to squeeze two words out in a hoarse half whisper. “You  _ knew? _ ” 

Then, louder, he echoed himself: “You KNEW?” 

“Anakin, I—”

“Why didn’t you say something?” His words were slurred and breathy, weighed down by the huffs of someone who had just run a mile and the diction of a drunk. Stumbling forward as his head grew even lighter, Anakin limped away from Palpatine’s desk and toward the center of the office. 

“It was your secret to keep or to share,” Palpatine’s voice carried through the room. It seemed to reverberate inside Anakin’s skull as he took sharp, panicked breaths. “It wouldn't have been right for me to pry.” 

“How long?” Anakin said, gulping down another breath as he spoke—his tongue was dry, his throat scratchy as the sandblasted turbines of Oseon’s wind farms. When Palpatine said nothing, Anakin turned to glare at him and raised his voice to a near-shout. “How long have you known?” 

It was the first time he’d  _ ever _ been angry with the Chancellor. Deep down, he supposed he ought to be concerned about that. But he shoved that tiny voice aside.

Right now, getting angry felt good.

The sudden increase in volume prompted Palpatine to hold up a hand and simultaneously glance at the office door, panicked eyes darting back and forth between the exit and his outraged aide. “Calm down, son.” 

“How. Long.” 

The chancellor placed a palm against the surface of his desk, leaning his weight into the stone slab of furniture. Raising his other hand to rub his temples, he stared at the crimson carpet for several seconds before answering. “I’ve had my suspicions for a number of years, but . . . Serenno. I was all but certain after Serenno.” 

_ Oh god,  _ Anakin thought, then repeated himself aloud. “Oh  _ god _ . Serenno.” All it took was one word and it was if a vacuum had opened up within him, the rage vanishing with a cavernous  _ pop _ and leaving only memories of falling platforms.

His knees gave out from beneath him, and he found himself collapsing into the chair previously occupied by Sate Pestage. Sliding down into the furniture—dignity be damned, he couldn’t be bothered to sit up straight right now—he covered his eyes with his flesh hand. “Serenno was their fault, you know. Our fault. The Jedi. Every single thing we did to try fixing it just made it worse.”

He’d sunk as far into the furniture as it would allow—regrettably, it hadn’t simply absorbed him into its cushioned structure. Adjusting his posture, Anakin sat up the slightest bit and turned to shoot the chancellor a pained stare. “You hate the Jedi.” It was not a question, but a fact—Palpatine had made his disdain no secret over the years. “How do you still trust me?”   
Palpatine moved beside Anakin, then past him, settling in the chair directly across from his right hand man. He perched his elbows on the armrests, leaning in toward the former Jedi and clasping his hands together. “I trust you because you left. You saw what the Jedi were becoming, and you put it behind you.”

_ And now you want to go back.  _ Anakin fought the urge to slump in his chair again, instead settling for tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He had been so close to accepting Obi-Wan’s offer—first at his old teacher’s apartment, and again in this very office when the politicking of Palpatine’s inner circle had nearly overwhelmed him. Working for the Jedi Order had ultimately resulted in him getting people killed, yes—but working for Palpatine hadn’t resulted in anything at all.  _ Which,  _ he silently wondered,  _ is worse?  _

“I haven’t put it behind me,” he said, his mouth a half step ahead of his brain. Before he could reverse course, before he could take the words back, they were already out in the open. “They asked me to come back. Tonight, just before I came here, they invited me to rejoin the Order.” 

Anakin recoiled inside as he spoke the words—they’d escaped with such bitterness, such vitriol, as if he had only admitted it to hurt the chancellor. Palpatine himself, it seemed, had  _ actually  _ recoiled—breaking eye contact with the ceiling, Anakin looked at the chair across from him to see the chancellor sliding backwards in his seat and raising one hand to cover his mouth. 

“They’re going after Maul,” Anakin continued in an attempt to fill the painful silence that had started to fill the room. “That’s why they’ve disappeared from the broader war. They’re sending Knights after Maul. They want me to take him down.” 

“Are you going to do it?” 

Despite his moment of shock, the chancellor didn’t sound angry or offended. Just curious.

Strange, Anakin thought. That should have made him calmer. Instead he found himself staring into Palpatine’s calm and  _ resenting  _ it.

Unblinking, he replied, “I might.”

He held Palpatine’s gaze, hoping for some sort of reaction. There was none. The mask was already back in place. 

_ Give me something, dammit,  _ he thought, fighting to stop himself from spitting the words across the room. Here he sat, Useless Errand Boy Skywalker, staring at a chancellor who didn’t give a damn whether he walked off the job right now and rejoined a religion that had gotten thousands of people killed.  _ What do I have to do?  _

_ Deliver him the Jedi Knights,  _ answered a voice in his head—one that was mostly, but not entirely, his own.

Of course. That was it. Take care of Maul  _ for _ them, and they’d rejoin the war. They’d turn the tide, wipe out the Confederacy—or what remained of it. They’d once again be the saviors of the galaxy—and Anakin Skywalker would be anything but a useless errand boy. He’d be the one who made it all happen. 

( _ Why should they  _ need _ you to deliver them Maul before doing the right thing? _ asked a voice that sounded curiously like Palpatine’s.)

He shoved the voice back down into the darkness. Aloud, he explained the plan.

Palpatine scoffed. 

“They can’t be trusted to keep their end of a deal like that, my boy.” His head turned back and forth slowly, a shake of disdain paired with an equally distrustful scowl. “In the last few months, if you’re to be believed, they’ve pulled back from engagement almost altogether. It seems now, looking back on it, that they joined the war solely for the opportunity to fight Maul. They’ve left the war for the same reason: to fight Maul. What do they gain by rejoining us in battle once he’s been defeated?” 

( _ But it wasn’t  _ like _ that, Obi-Wan said they were spread too thin, pulling back to try to protect the enclaves, to consolidate their strength— _

_ Didn’t he? _ )

Aloud, he just asked, “You wouldn’t welcome the help, then?” He felt himself slide forward in his chair as his voice desperately climbed in pitch.

Palpatine shook his head, giving off the air of a father who wished he could believe in his boy’s fantasies. “If the members of the Jedi Order wish to help, Anakin, each of them are more than welcome to join the Grand Army of the Republic.” With that, he shoved against the armrests of the chair, rising to his feet and making way for the executive desk. Arriving at his destination, he settled into the chair behind the grand stone slab and picked up a datapad.

In that moment, Anakin realized the solution to it all had just been dropped in his lap. He rose to his feet—Palpatine glanced up past his datapad at Anakin, raising an eyebrow as if to say  _ what is it?  _

“I quit.” 

With that, he turned and strode toward the door. 

“Excuse me?”

The two words froze Anakin in his tracks. He risked a glance back at the chancellor—the datapad dangled precariously in his fingertips, and he was staring in Anakin’s direction with a sudden sharpness.

Finally, he’d gotten through. 

“I’m done running errands,” he answered, whirling to fully face Palpatine. “I’m done attending state dinners and escorting senators to conference rooms. I want to get out there. I want to fight back. I’m joining the Grand Army.” 

The datapad slipped from Palpatine’s fingers, clattering against the executive desk. The hand that once held it, Anakin noticed, was shaking imperceptibly—as it wavered, Palpatine curled it into a fist which he lowered gingerly into his lap. “The Grand Army,” he began, slowly rising to a standing position, “is not the place for you, Anakin. You are no ordinary frontline soldier. Your potential is far greater. It would be an utter waste to send you off to war. You trained with the Knights of the Jedi Order—but they don’t realize this. They will hold you back out of fear of killing a celebrity. One who’s close to me on top of that.” 

Anakin sputtered in protest, holding up his mechanical hand. “I’m not a celebrity—”

“You’re the Hero of Had Abbadon! You destroyed a Lancer station! You are Anakin Skywalker, tragic survivor of the horrendous Crisis on Serenno. The Grand Army of the Republic will not send you to battle, my boy. They will stick you behind a desk, use you as a prop in parades and newsreels.

“As for the Jedi, if it is as you say”—he paused, glancing to one side and then the other as if to make sure no one else was listening—“if they did indeed exacerbate what happened at Serenno, then they are far more reckless than I feared. Their repeated attempts to kill Maul will only endanger others—and they will never face the consequences of their actions. They answer to no one.” 

Anakin glanced down at his feet—without realizing it, he had walked back toward Palpatine. He reached out to brush his fingertips against the stone of the executive desk. 

The chancellor inhaled deeply—the sound of his breath filled the silence of the office. “But you,” he said. “They were right to reach out to you. More right than they ever could have known.” He held an open hand high, gesturing in a wide arc like an orchestra conductor as he spoke—he began by pointing at Anakin. 

“You answer to me.” His hand moved inward, toward his own chest. “I answer to the Senate.” His hand moved outward, toward his office door. “The senators answer to the people of the Republic.” His hand swept sideways until it was nearly behind him, pointing toward the window that formed the back wall of his office—then returned to pointing at Anakin. “People like you.”

“A perfect circle of accountability,” Palpatine said, nodding as if to underscore himself. “I have another idea, son. A better idea. One that lets you fight back. One that realizes your true potential.” He placed both palms on the desk and leaned over it until his face was close enough that Anakin could see each and every detail—every pore, every wrinkle that the years of conflict had added. Every flare of his nostril as he took another breath. “Will you help me win this war?” 

Anakin opened his mouth, and at first no words came.

Palpatine had asked many things of him in the time they’d worked together. But this was the first time he seemed to be pleading for something  _ he _ needed. Not the Republic, the man.

There was something gratifying in that.

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, and searched for the words until he found his answer. Sweat formed on his flesh palm, and his heart began to race as he nodded at Palpatine. 

“What would you have me do?”

* * *

**_REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: SBI REPORT - A FRACTURED CONFEDERACY_ **

_ [excerpt from an internal Senate Bureau of Intelligence message discussing changes to the organizational structure of the Confederacy of Independent Systems] _

In the wake of the attack on Coruscant, chaos erupted across the Outer Rim. With the loss of the CIS Board, high-ranking individuals of the Confederacy chose not to rally together, but to seize whatever piece of the pie they could get their hands on. If I had to speculate, it’s simple panic. They saw what happened in the Core and they want to shore up defenses for the inevitable response. 

Small fleets of warships were commandeered by their captains. Systems and sectors were snatched up overnight. What was once a large swath of united CIS territory is now a splintered map of dynamic alliances—indeed, we have already seen Confederate commanders go to war against each other. (This may prove advantageous as our forces work to clean up what remains of the CIS—if we can sic them on each other, that’s less work for us). 

As for the attack on Coruscant, it is clear now it was far from a united front. The Warlord Maul and his Admiral Valis acted alone, without the authorization of their corporate backers. There is no doubt of that—I have attached the relevant files which serve as quite convincing proof. Proceed with caution, they are not for the faint of heart. 

_ [several images of charred corpses are attached to the message; the bodies are cleanly cut into multiple pieces] _


	11. A Grand Design (Part II: Ties That Bind)

For the first time since he debarked the  _ Coelacanth _ two years ago, Anakin Skywalker stands on a military starship.

Not the same military—this ship is not from the Defense Force, commissioned by one world out of many and then loaned to the Republic’s use. No, this is a spearhead of the Grand Army. A vessel built for one purpose.

To win the war.

“The  _ Arbiter _ ,” Palpatine had told him the day before, as they stood outside the ship and admired her. Big enough to house the  _ Spice Dancer  _ in its hangar, hull plating matte black, all curves until it terminated in a sharp prow. “The first of her kind, I am told. Commissioned as a prototype for the Grand Army earlier this year _. _ ”

It was anonymity given shape, a long low blade that would disappear among the ebony of space, visible only through the stars it blotted out. A hole, a void, until it opened fire.

Now, standing inside her, looking over the sleek surfaces and spartan design—every angle, every button imbued with purpose—Anakin remembers the words that had come next and feels a shiver of anticipation run through him.

“Who commands her _? _ ” he’d asked.

Palpatine had looked at him as though he thought the answer was obvious. “Why, my dear boy, you do. It’s always been meant for you.”

Palpatine’s known. All along, he’s known that Anakin is meant for something greater than politics, than process, than organizing. He’s meant to win wars.

All the chancellor was waiting for was for Anakin to ask.

* * *

Isard was right about one thing: the Confederacy as the galaxy knew it no longer exists. “And that,” Palpatine told Anakin that night in his office, “means that there is no longer one route to victory. Our enemies have become a hydra—divide them and they simply multiply. Of course Maul must be dealt with, but that’s not the match. His death will not be the easy victory the Jedi believe it to be—simply one of many gambits we must execute, and execute flawlessly. And that’s why we need you, my boy.”

And then, he laid out the endgame. The stratagem that will win the Clone Wars.

* * *

If one were to look at a map of the galaxy, they would see the Republic starting at the center and expanding outward. In the years prior to the Clone Wars, this expansion did not stop so much as dwindle. The extreme Mid Rim was the point where independent worlds became dominant, but even there Republic worlds still existed—and still beyond them, in the Outer Rim, a handful of member territories persisted.

The Confederacy changed all that.

In the four years of their expansion, they swallowed up any Republic worlds that lay beyond the Mid Rim’s veil, with independent worlds either joining or surrendering. Then they chivvied their way into the Mid Rim—a slow process after the fiasco at Serenno robbed them of the Aurora system’s hyperlane, but accomplished step by step, world by world, giving them the tunnel that they’d poured through into Coruscant space. The Republic’s boundaries became definite, absolute, a ragged line that ranged nearly across its entire bottom.

But when Maul and Valis splintered their holdings—slaughtered the executive board and turned the Republic’s one monster into innumerable fanged heads—they left that boundary weakened. Porous. Ready to break.

The Grand Army’s job is to shatter it.

The Defense Force could not have done this—too many agendas at play, too many joint operations to coordinate and hold together in the name of a Republic that mattered less to soldiers than their homeworlds. But it’s what the Grand Army was born for. A single shockwave, ready to push outward and crumble the wall of the many Confederate shards into sand.

Such a campaign will be ruinously costly—to finances, to personnel, to morale. It will drag on for years, taking territory back inch by inch. It will work, but slowly—and in the time it takes for the ghosts of one Confederacy to be dealt with, another may very well rise to take its place.

The Grand Army will win the war, but it needs to win it quickly.

And  _ that _ is why Palpatine needs Anakin.

Where the fleet is a hammer, Anakin and the  _ Arbiter _ will be a scalpel. Clean, swift cuts that on their own would be mere setbacks for their enemies, but, when joined with the body blows of the Republic’s navy and army, will be turning points. Breakthroughs. Anakin will slash the tendons of each Confederate faction one by one, piece by piece, and when he’s done his work, the Grand Army will finish off the maimed giants.

It will begin at Sluis Van.

* * *

“The shipyards there _ , _ ” Palpatine had told him, “represent our most immediate problem. The other splinter Confederate factions all have navies, of course, but they’ll need to weigh each ship carefully. The Sluissi, on the other hand . . .”

He didn’t need to finish the thought. Sluis Van was, save for Kuat Drive Yards, the largest hub for capital ship production in the galaxy. Though the  _ Charybdis _ ’ manufacturers were not a matter of record, Anakin knew she was in all likelihood constructed there. So too, since the start of the war, has it churned out countless deathbox frigates, armored dreadnoughts, and worse. Far, far worse.

Sluis Van Shipyards were the architects of the  _ Lancer _ prototype. One of only two that were ever made.

Anakin closed his eyes as Palpatine talked and saw the images of white-hot fire raining down upon floating city platforms. Felt the perfect certainty that had come over him—that this was right, what he was meant for, to get things done—evaporating in a single moment.

A firm, familiar weight on his shoulder. Palpatine’s hand. And his voice: “Son? Are you all right?”

He swallowed. “Sir, I—why do you need me for this? We’ve got lots of capable soldiers that could run this sort of mission—”

Palplatine shook his head quickly. “This mission—and it is only the first—is an incredible risk. It is not something I could possibly prevail upon Congress to approve. And I will be honest with you, my boy—were it in anyone else’s hands, I doubt it would succeed. That is why, when I say it was meant for you, I mean it.” He chuckled gently and withdrew his hand from Anakin’s shoulder. “I had planned to ask you at a more convenient hour of the day, of course, but you are ever unorthodox _. _ ”

And then he felt another shame flowing through him—he’d  _ shouted _ at Palpatine, berated him, vented all his frustrations when they had nothing to do with the chancellor, only with himself and his stupid inability to decide what he wanted. “Sir, I’m so sorry—”

“Anakin.” A note of sternness in his voice, one that commanded attention. “I know better than anyone the burdens you carry. Do not apologize to me.”

Nodding, Anakin considered, then said, “So this is off the books.”

“It’s an executive command. One overseen directly by me. You will be under my constant orders, my supervision. In fact,” and here Palpatine chuckled again, “this way you will be far more responsibly managed than you would be otherwise. You know Congress.”

He’d tried to chuckle back but couldn’t make himself feel it. “Sir, the last time I oversaw a combat mission it ended with thousands of people dead.”

“Oh Anakin.” Palpatine’s voice was tired, but not on his own behalf. Somehow, Anakin could tell that the weariness in the chancellor’s voice was for him. “I won’t patronize you and say that you are entirely free of blame. But you had no guiding hand. May I confide something to you?”

The question took Anakin aback. But it made sense, didn’t it? The whole galaxy took their troubles to Palpatine to manage—was it really so strange that he would turn to a friend for his own unburdening, even one so young as Anakin? “Of course.”

“When you told me that General Kenobi was the one who left you alone there—who turned over his command without any formal battle plan—I was . . . well, I was furious.” His voice was as tranquil as it usually was, but Anakin saw Palpatine’s throat work quickly at this admission, as if recalling some of that fury. “You were put in charge of a situation spiraling out of anyone’s control and expected to perform flawlessly. That you were put in that position . . .”

A spike of unease coursing through him, Anakin quickly replied, “Obi-Wan trusted me. I let him down.”

“My dear boy,  _ I _ trust you as well. But I will not allow my trust in you to become an excuse to foist responsibility upon you.”

The next day, Palpatine had looked out at the hangar. White-armored troops had stood in perfect rows. Crew members scrambled from one end of the  _ Arbiter _ to the other, supplying her, fueling her, making her ready. The staging area’s sounds filled the air—the steady  _ chug-thump _ of walker legs moving up and down, the sparks of plasma torches welding new connections, erratic whistles and chirps from astromech droids. And human speech—orders barked up and down the hangar.

“The chain of command is a beautiful thing, Anakin,” Palpatine had said. “Every person here has a purpose, as much as every piece of equipment. And they fulfill that purpose in the knowledge that their superiors fulfill theirs. Soldiers do their duty, but they don’t really move themselves. They are moved by those above them, and so on.”

He’d turned to meet Anakin’s gaze once more. “It’s as I told you last night. A perfect circle of accountability. When you embark on these missions, you will execute my will, just as I execute the will of the office entrusted to me. I promise you, I will never give you cause to overstep, never place you in a situation where you must muddle through without order. You will always have a guiding hand.”

Anakin had found himself wondering what Palpatine might have been had he lived another life—had been a teacher. Or even a Jedi. Obi-Wan had always done the best he knew how, but he liked ambiguities. Abstractions. Shades of color that Anakin, try as he might, couldn’t always see.

Palpatine’s words were simple. Plain. Perfect. Somehow when he spoke, everything just . . . made sense.

In Anakin’s mind, there was a crystal-clear image: his mechanical hand swung downward to point, to deal out judgment to those on the other side of the war. But the arm the hand connected to wasn’t his.

It was Palpatine’s.

He’d blinked. Hard. Then looked at Palpatine and said, “I won’t fail you, sir.”

When the chancellor had smiled, there was such gratefulness, such relief there that Anakin could almost feel them. “Thank you, my boy. Truly. Your trust in me is . . . it means the world.” He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “We can consider this first mission a trial. If you carry it out and decide this is not the place for you, do what you want with my blessing. Go back to the Jedi. Join the Grand Army. But if you feel led . . .”

He let the pause signify all that could follow.

* * *

The chancellor had turned to depart—it was late, he’d said, and both of them should return to their homes and rest in preparation for what was to come. He took one step, two, and then Anakin had found the voice to say what he’d hesitated to say.

“Chancellor?”

Turning and raising a questioning brow, Palpatine asked, “Yes?”

“I know you’ve come to believe in the Jedi. I don’t know whether . . . whether you believe in the Force.”

Where he hoped for an answer, Palpatine simply stood there, silent, his expression inquiring. Waiting for Anakin to continue.

The young man cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose if you don’t this will sound silly, but . . . it’s real. I could touch it, once. When I left the Order, I left that behind too.”

He’d shifted from foot to foot, searching for the way to put it, and finally just said it plainly. “I’ll do my duty for you. But I can’t use the Force to do it. I made a promise.”

And oh, how close he’d come to breaking that promise in Obi-Wan’s home just the night before. How he’d wanted to break down the walls he’d built suffocatingly close around himself and let the air in again.

But now he had another way to be of use. Another guiding hand. And he couldn’t risk the hurt that he could cause if Palpatine’s authority were displaced by one far greater.

The silliness of his statement caused his face to flush. He half expected Palpatine to laugh, or worse, treat him seriously while struggling to keep that amusement down.

But there was nothing so mortifying. Palpatine had simply nodded once, and turned away.

* * *

Now, in the present, Anakin sits in the pilot’s seat of his ship, turning that conversation over and over in his mind.  _ A perfect circle of accountability, executing the Republic’s will. A guiding hand. _

A chime issues from the control panel in front of him, startling him from his reverie. “ _ Authorized entry by crew member, _ ” an automated voice informs him.

He’d showed up early this morning, far before the mission’s scheduled departure time, so he could spend some time alone in the ship. Familiarize himself with its feel, its shape. Just think. But now his crew is arriving, and there’s work to be done.

Time to do his duty.

As he rises from the pilot’s seat, Anakin takes a reflexive glance at the copilot’s station and feels a pang when Padmé isn’t there—feels a deeper pang at the fact that he can’t tell her anything about this. That he left a lying message on her comm after she departed the planet the morning after their fight without saying goodbye—left with Bail, for Alderaan.  _ Traveling off-planet,  _ he’d told her in that message, _ Chancellor has me overseeing some supply-line issues, _ excuses like that.

When she gets back, and he gets back, they’ll fix things. He can worry about it later.

Right now, he has to meet his new soldiers.

So Anakin Skywalker shuts his mind to those he loves. Stills the fears that still course within him.

Goes to war.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: DEFENSE COMMITTEE MEMO – SUSPICIOUS REQUISITIONS** _

_ [excerpt from a Senate Defense Committee memo by Senator Garm Bel Iblis of Corellia] _

I must, on principle, question these requisitions which are shrouded in secrecy, covered in redactions and stamps of top classification. I am no supporter of bringing our defensive might under one umbrella; the idea of the Grand Army disturbs me to the core. 

Nevertheless, even I cannot deny that it has certain advantages. To cite an example that perhaps hits too close to home, no longer can Alderaan send ships from its own planetary defense fleet to start a war in the Had system. Transparency between and among worlds of the Republic is critical to the success of this new, united force. 

You must see, then, why I find these requisitions disturbing. Warships and warriors diverted to an unknown assignment? What possible use could a government office on Coruscant have for such a great number of firearms and cutting edge starfighters? Are we to permit this secrecy solely because it bears the chancellor’s signature? 

I urge my fellow members of the Defense Committee to deny this request from Chancellor Palpatine until he provides us with greater detail as to precisely  _ why  _ he is diverting these resources. 

_ [archivist’s note: Senator Bel Iblis was the only Defense Committee member to vote “no” on Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s requisition order]  _


	12. Restore the Republic (Part III: The Chancellor's Hand)

When you spent too much time in one place, Padmé liked to say, you forgot what the air tasted like. In the past, it had been her excuse for pushing forward in life, for egging Anakin on to the next world, the next job, the next mark. Always moving, whether the  _ Spice Dancer  _ was in shape to move or not. If you couldn’t taste the air anymore, you’d been in one place for too long. 

It’s how she knew Junkfort Station tasted like you’d bit the inside of your cheek and stirred flakes of burnt steel into the blood. Oseon was gritty, the windswept dirt and sand forming the thinnest coating on your tongue. Coruscant’s pollution wasn’t obvious when you’d been there for the better part of a year, but fresh off the ship it was enough to make you choke. 

Alderaan tasted perfect. 

It was a filtered glass of water mixed with immaculate cubes of ice, pouring backward into a parched throat. Crisp and chilled, it tickled the nose and filled one’s lungs with life. The Alderaanian people’s concerted efforts to preserve the planet’s nature had paid off in spades. Even within the heart of the city, the air was as fresh as a mountain peak. 

From within the walls of the palace, the fresh air did little to calm her frayed nerves. She stood in an indistinct room—it was a far cry from the grandeur of the formal conference spaces and dining rooms, and lacked the history of the main throne room. The walls were plain but pleasing to the eye, the view out the window was nice enough. It had probably been an office at one time or another, or perhaps a simple storage closet. Today it was unoccupied—as far as the official records were concerned. 

Unofficially, Breha Organa sat on one side of a desk while her husband paced behind her. An empty chair sat across from her, and Padmé stood with her back to the wall—as the midmorning sun sent a streak of light through the window, she shuffled sideways to keep it out of her eyes.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Bail said—as he reached one wall of the room, he spun on a heel and began pacing the other direction. “We can still jump ship and forget we ever tried this.”   
“Actually, Bail, we can’t,” Padmé replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Jumping ship, she supposed, was actually an apt metaphor for what they’d already done earlier this very morning. They’d taken a dive into the deep end, there was no turning back now. 

The queen let out a lengthy sigh. “She’s right.” Looking up from the clasped hands she had resting on the desk, Breha nodded at Padmé. “Go ahead and bring her in.” 

Stepping away from the office wall, Padmé turned and opened the door. On the other side stood a woman draped in white robes. “Senator Mothma?” Padmé said. “Please come in.” 

Mon Mothma did as requested, gliding across the floor into the old office and settling into the chair across from the queen. As she sat, Padmé shut the door and moved to stand in front of it. She found herself hoping Mon Mothma wouldn’t look over her shoulder—it probably looked as though Padmé were trying to block her from leaving.  _ Maybe I am,  _ she thought.  _ Can’t have her bolting before she’s heard the sales pitch _ . 

“Senator,” the queen began, untangling her fingers and leaning toward the new arrival. “Let’s talk about Palpatine.” 

Padmé wished she were on the other side of the desk, in the space where Bail continued to pace back and forth. Mon Mothma wasn’t known for being verbose—her facial expressions would be the key to knowing how she was reacting to Breha’s invitation. Padmé couldn’t see them; the only thing she had eyes on was the ornately styled auburn hair at the back of the senator’s head. 

The queen took a deep breath before she continued speaking. “I won’t mince words or waste your time. The chancellor’s ruthless expansion of the powers of his office—of the Republic itself—cannot continue. It seems justified now, when there is an enemy of the state he can point to as a need for these powers. But we must ask ourselves: once he has extinguished the dissenting voices outside the Republic, how long before he turns his executive authority and his armed forces on dissenting voices within it?” 

Mon Mothma’s head dipped down in the slightest of nods. “A question I’ve asked myself on more than one occasion. You fear he may target Alderaan as one of these dissenting voices?” 

Padmé watched both members of the royal couple carefully, anticipating a reply from either one of them. She knew the queen believed it was inevitable—and that Bail didn’t  _ want  _ to believe it. 

“He’s stepped over the line, of course”—it was Bail, who’d stopped in his tracks so he could talk—”but that’d be a bridge too far. He can’t lash out against one of his own planets like that, it’d be career suicide.” 

“Unfortunately, Bail,” Mon said, “you’ve given him plenty of ammunition over the years to paint you as an adversary. I wouldn’t be surprised to see his more loyal supporters go along with it.” 

_ Ouch.  _ She wasn’t wrong, of course. Padmé just hadn’t expected her to say it. 

“We must,” the queen said, her expression one of desperation to change the subject, “act before this becomes a problem. Senator Mothma, if you would consider joining us, you and Bail will be the first members of an alliance within the Senate. An alliance meant to work within the confines of the legislature to undo the damage Palpatine has already done, to prevent him from doing more, and to ultimately restore the Republic.” 

Breha opened her mouth to take a breath before continuing, but stopped short when Mon Mothma offered another, more definitive nod. 

“Say no more,” she interrupted. “You may count me in.” 

_ That was a little too easy,  _ Padmé thought—she locked eyes with Bail and shot him a look of surprise. He seemed equally caught off guard. 

“I . . . thought you’d put up a bit more of a fight,” Bail said— _ is that disappointment in his voice?  _ “You’re really on board with this?” 

Padmé could see Mon Mothma’s back straighten as she shifted in her chair. “Something must be done to stop him. If we’re able to do it from within the legislature, even better. I assumed at this point that any opposition to Palpatine would need to take a more drastic form.” 

“So do we.” It was the queen, who—in a manner rather unbefitting of royalty—placed her elbows on the desk and steepled her fingers together. “I’m glad to hear you share the same opinion. I was worried this next part would make you change your mind. What we’ve pictured is a two-pronged approach. Yes, we must build an alliance within the legislature, but we also must prepare for the possibility of more direct conflict. We’ll need a group of allies within the Grand Army of the Republic.” 

* * *

“ _ Within  _ the Grand Army?” 

The young military man from Commenor— _ Jan Dodonna,  _ Bail reminded himself, repeating their guest’s name in his head—scrunched his face as he said it. His clothes were well trimmed and tailored, a stark contrast to his beard—flecks of silver were beginning to sprout amidst the otherwise dark scruff along his chin and jawline. 

Dodonna sat at a table in one of Alderaan’s public parks; the queen sat across from him while Bail stood behind her. The senator shifted his gaze from their guest to his security guard. Padmé was just out of earshot, leaning against a tree and squinting against the sun that stood directly overhead. Her job: ensuring no one would approach them while they spoke. 

“That’s correct. It is too early for open rebellion. The senators who have joined our cause will vote in step with Palpatine until they have the numbers to safely break rank. The armed wing of our alliance must do the same. An appearance of cooperation is critical.”

Dodonna cocked his head to the side. “You’re suggesting Commenor join the Grand Army after all?” 

Bail watched as the words left Dodonna’s mouth—a strange mix of fear and annoyance played across the young man’s face. His homeworld had been one of the handful to push back against Palpatine’s declaration of a unified galactic military. Some had cited long standing local traditions in their objections, others simply took the opportunity to exercise the independence they believed they had. Regardless, their goals had been the same: keep their planetary armed forces out of his Grand Army. 

“I am.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dodonna said, “but I’m going to have to go back to Commenor and convince my superiors that’s the right idea. I’m not sure that’s possible.” 

Though Bail couldn’t see it, he knew that pain had welled up behind Breha’s eyes as she leaned in to reply. It was evident in her voice. “Tell them what happened on Alderaan,” the queen began. 

“I tried to withdraw us from the Grand Army. I shared our world’s history of peace with the military administrators. I told them the tale of how our forefathers cast aside their weapons of war, and how I longed to return Alderaan to that place one day. They were more than happy to grant my wish.” 

Dodonna’s eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a raspy half whisper. “Not in the way you wanted, I imagine?” 

“They took our turbolaser factories,” Breha answered. “I’d have seen them shut down, but they hauled the equipment off to Fondor to install new cannons on their Star Destroyers.”

The young man from Commenor waved a dismissive hand. “They were going to get their weapons of war one way or the other. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Oh, if they had stopped there I could have lived with it,” Breha said—Bail took a step closer to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it in anticipation of what she was about to say. Knowing it already, hearing it for the third or fourth time, didn’t make it any easier. 

“They’re keeping Typhoon Division. The  _ Coelacanth  _ is at Kuat Drive Yards undergoing repairs. The crew is there with her. When they’re finished fixing the ship, they’ll be pressed back into service for the Grand Army.” She choked on her next words. “The most loyal members of my Royal Guard belong to Palpatine now.”

* * *

“I’m so sorry.” 

Padmé watched with great intent as the woman across the table from her spoke those words. They weren’t just an empty platitude, a courtesy extended to a queen she barely knew. Padmé could tell that Lisbeth Holdo meant it. 

When Bail and Breha had tasked her with finding supporters for their cause within the Galactic Core, she’d thought the task impossible. Thumbing through government records and Senate directories had nearly bored her to tears—and at any rate, it had been impossible to get a read on her marks that way. Documents told her very little; she’d needed to  _ see  _ something. 

She’d turned from record archives to planetary media, hopping from site to site across the holonet to see who had appeared on a local news broadcast here or given a talk show interview there. It was how she’d found Lisbeth Holdo—she wasn’t a politician or a soldier herself, but served the Blades of Gatalenta in a communications role. Perhaps it had been the unassuming wardrobe, or the gentle waves of her blonde hair, or the genuine undertones of her voice. Padmé had immediately taken to the woman before she’d ever met her, just by way of how Holdo carried herself in front of a holocamera.

“Thank you,” Breha said with a nod—Padmé noticed that Holdo had reached across the table and grasped the queen’s hands within her own. “It pains me to say this, but I’d recommend that Gatalenta drop their campaign to stay out of the Grand Army. I’d hate for a similar fate to befall your people.” 

“As would I,” Holdo said, her voice a breathy whisper. She released Breha’s hands from her grip and leaned back in her chair. “I fear not all of our Blades will do as I suggest, but enough of them will listen.” At this she glanced down at her lap. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Highness?” 

“Of course.” 

“The Blades of Gatalenta are not suited to stand up to the Grand Army. Not in the way you’re suggesting may one day happen. It’s a ceremonial order, the name is quite literal. They’re not a modern fighting force. They’re good people, loyal to our world, and eager to do the right thing. But the swords of old will not stop Palpatine’s warriors. 

“We need ships, and shipbuilders, and people to fly and crew them.” 

* * *

“All I can offer you is one warship.” Jan Dodonna’s fingers brushed against the pips of the rank insignia pinned to his chest. Bail didn’t recognize the rank—the Grand Army uniforms were still being handed out across the galaxy, the different planetary ranks phasing out in turn—but judging by the size of the insignia, the warship Dodonna spoke of couldn’t have been much bigger than the  _ Sundered Heart _ . “My crew will follow me in this endeavor, but I can’t promise the rest of Commenor will. You need numbers, and a planet that’s united enough to fight back all at once. A  _ person  _ who can get such a planet behind him.” 

* * *

“There still exists a group within the Senate,” Mon Mothma began, shaking her head as she spoke the words—though Padmé couldn’t see her face, she could tell the senator was questioning whether to even say what she was about to say—”that is rather vocal in their independence. I do believe they’d back us in this endeavor, should it become plainly necessary for them to do so.”

Bail shook his head. “They’d never listen to me. Not after everything I’ve done.” 

“You’re right about that,” she replied. “They certainly wouldn’t.” 

Padmé’s eyes grew wide. Mon Mothma wasn’t pulling any punches. 

“There is someone they  _ will  _ listen to, though. I’m sorry, Bail, but I think we have to get Garm Bel Iblis.” 

* * *

The sound of Bail Organa sipping gingerly at an overfilled mug of caf cut through the awkward silence that lingered in the chilled morning air. Ornate outdoor seating surrounded a spread of pastries and fruit on a central table, all of it perched atop a stone patio that overlooked Alderaan’s palace garden. Across the grounds and beyond the capital city, the rising sun was just beginning to show itself above the mountain peaks. 

Padmé stared at her boss as he took another excessively loud sip of the steaming drink, fighting the urge to scrunch her face into a scolding look. If it had been just the two of them she’d have done it, but there was an important guest across the breakfast table. 

“Senator Bel Iblis?” Breha’s voice broke through the silence—the queen leaned forward as she asked it, anticipation written on her face. 

A gruff cough came from the man across the table. Padmé eyed the senator up and down—he at once had a youthful vigor and a grizzled agedness to him. His hair was nowhere near thinning, but most of it had gone silver—those strands glinted in the sunlight as Bel Iblis shifted in his chair. 

“I’m thinking,” he said, balancing his caf mug on the arm of his chair and reaching up to run a thumb along his mustache. His gaze was distant, not focused on anyone around him. When several seconds had passed, he picked up the mug between thumb and forefinger and turned his eyes toward Breha. “You really believe arming yourselves against the Republic is necessary?” 

“We do.” 

Bel Iblis shook his head. ”Then I must decline.” Leaning forward, he set his empty caf mug on the table before him and snatched up a piece of fruit. “Corellia keeps electing me to the Senate, and I believe there’s a reason for that. I’ve been charged with keeping war away from my planet, from keeping the Corellian Security Force out of others’ affairs.

“I failed in that charge when I failed to stop this Clone War from happening—and now that the Confederacy has splintered, the war has multiplied with them. I cannot in good conscience willfully sign my people up for civil war on top of that.” 

“Forget the war for a second, then. Could we count on your support within the Senate, at least?”

Padmé blurted out the words before she was aware of her own voice. Internally, she winced as Breha shot her an affronted look, but she kept her face calm.  _ Bastard can’t just get away. Not when we have so much riding on him. _

As Bel Iblis’ eyes turned from Breha to her, Padmé could see an icy look form within them. Whatever pleasantries he’d been extending to the queen had just been cast aside. “And you are?”

“This is Padmé Amidala,” Bail hastily put in, “my head of security.” At that last, he shot her a quick glare.

“I’m surprised you let your help act up that way, Organa,” Bel Iblis rumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on Padmé’s. “You’re speaking to a senator, Ms. Amidala.”

She knew better than to go too far with both Bail and Breha watching her, so she put aside the retort she’d reflexively prepared. Instead, keeping her expression as devoid of irritation as she could, she replied, “Hence the question about your usefulness in the Senate. Sir.”  _ Pompous prick. _

Exhaling in a rough snort, the senator turned his attention back to Bail. “You may find me and some of my like-minded colleagues voting in step with you, should the time come when you decide to finally stand up to Palpatine in the legislature,” he said through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. Pausing, he gnawed off a piece of the fruit in his hand and swallowed it in one gulp. “If it occurs, consider it a coincidence rather than an endorsement of your—what was it you called it?— _ alliance. _ ” Then, turning back to the queen: “Are we finished?” 

“We are,” she said without looking at him. 

“Then I wish you the best, Your Highness.”

Rising to his feet, he bowed in her direction, nodded in Bail’s. Then he turned his eyes toward Padmé one last time, as though he’d very much like to pin her to the wall with them, before biting into the fruit again. “Thank you for breakfast.”

With that, he was gone.

* * *

The crackling of the fireplace in the sitting room and the sounds of an orchestra coming from the audiograph did little to muffle the slam of the royal residence’s main door. 

“Unbelievable,” Bail snapped. “Just unbelievable.” Storming into the living room, he threw his cape over the back of a couch and made his way to the liquor cabinet on the far side of the room. 

“Bail,” Breha said, gently stretching out her husband’s name as she followed him into the living room—Padmé watched the altercation unfold as she took up the rear; in an unusual move, the queen had invited her into the sitting room with them. 

“If I went back in time and told myself that Garm Bel  _ goddamn  _ Iblis was going to be what held everything together,” he began, plucking a whiskey bottle off the shelf and pouring too much into a glass. As the drink flowed, he let out a deep sigh and left his thought unfinished. 

“He isn’t holding everything together, dear.” 

“ _ One  _ person, Breha. We got one person, and it was the person we were sure we’d get anyway!” he replied, gesturing in her direction with the drink and sloshing some of it onto his hand in the process. 

Though Padmé wanted to snap at Bail to straighten up, to pull himself together, she held her tongue. In his home, in front of his wife—it was neither the time nor the place. Coming to stop behind one of the living room chairs, she leaned against the furniture and looked on as Breha guided Bail toward the couch and sat him down. 

“It’s not about Garm Bel Iblis. Not him specifically,” the queen began, lowering herself onto the couch beside her husband. “People like Dodonna and Holdo need to believe in this alliance—not just believe in what we stand for, but believe that we can succeed. Garm Bel Iblis represents what you and Mon Mothma cannot—an entire planet, united behind one man, capable and ready to fight. They know Corellia could stand up against Palpatine and have a shot at winning. That’s the kind of confidence he inspires.

“But he’s not the  _ only  _ person who inspires it.” 

A knowing look passed between husband and wife—Padmé was all too familiar. It was the sort of look she and Anakin had once exchanged with great frequency, the key to silent communication when they’d had a mark on the hook. You could say a thousand words with just a glance, paint a picture with the way you placed your emphasis within a sentence.  _ The  _ only  _ person who inspires it,  _ Padmé echoed the queen inside her head. 

Breha wasn’t speaking in hypotheticals or generalities. She was speaking of someone specific, and Bail knew exactly who it was. 

He shot her a look of dread. “You really want to try that tonight? After the way today has gone?” 

She didn’t answer him, instead turning to address Padmé. “Do you have your holocommunicator with you?” 

Padmé nodded, extracting the palm-sized disc from a pouch on her belt. 

“If we are to proceed with this alliance, we don’t just need the support of senators and soldiers. We need the Jedi.” 

Pinpricks swept across Padmé’s skin and her heart quickened as silence filled the room. She squeezed the holocomm hard enough to feel the metal creak within her grip.  _ Oh gods, not— _

“Obi-Wan hasn’t been answering our calls,” Bail said. Exasperation was layered through his voice—he sighed the words more than spoke them, taking a sip of whiskey before continuing. When he opened his mouth again, the words carried the raspiness of a throat burned with liquor. “We think he’d pick up if you tried to get a hold of him.” 

Padmé said nothing, merely stretching her arm out and raising the commlink to chest height. All she had to do was press her thumb into a button on the side of the device—it flickered to life, sending a signal to the frequency it had heard from most recently—the call she hadn’t answered. The one that, until now, she hadn’t returned. 

_ “Padmé?”  _ came the precise Core accent, Obi-Wan’s voice emerging from the unit a moment before his blue-tinted miniature form flickered into existence above it.  _ “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t call me back—” _

“I’ve got you here with Bail and Breha,” she interrupted, hoping to the gods neither of the Organas picked up on what he’d said. She shifted her grip on the device so that he was facing them instead of her. Before she could continue, the miniature projection of Obi-Wan held up a hand. 

_ “Ah. I . . . I’m sorry,”  _ he said, bowing in the queen’s direction.  _ “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t.”  _

“Can’t what?” Bail asked, leaning towards the tiny image. 

_ “Whatever this is about, I can’t be a part of it. It isn’t safe.” _

Though Padmé’s grip on the commlink remained steady, the projection of Obi-Wan rotated to face her.  _ “I wish I could say more, but I can’t right now. Please forgive me. Know that I wish you nothing but the best.”  _ He paused, glanced at his feet, then looked back up at her.  _ “The Force will be with you. Always.”  _

Though Padmé pushed no buttons on the commlink, Obi-Wan’s image turned to static. Wordlessly Bail rose from the couch and, whiskey glass in tow, stormed out of the room. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him. 

As Padmé leaned against the railing of the royal residence’s terrace—one of many, this one accessible from the living room—the nighttime air sent a chill across her skin. She gripped the mug between her hands tighter, letting the heat of the tea radiate into her fingers. Unlike her boss, she’d opted to skip the whiskey— _ not while I’m working,  _ she’d told the queen when Breha had offered her a drink after Bail stormed out of the room. 

She’d made tea while the queen had gone after her husband, and when she’d sat alone long enough she’d emerged onto the terrace to stare at the stars. 

Coruscant’s night sky, the one she’d gotten used to in recent months, wasn’t even black. It was more of a dull grey, stained by light pollution equivalent to that of a dozen rim worlds. Alderaan’s night sky, by comparison, looked like the Coruscant skyline. 

The city had gone dark as it always did after a certain hour—both as an energy conservation measure and a way to respect the natural cycle of day into night. Streaks of stars, of planets and nebulae, swirled above her as she raised the tea mug to her lips again. 

As she sipped, the door behind her creaked. She didn’t need to look back—it wasn’t Bail, his steps were heavier. Breha moved beside Padmé and leaned against the railing. 

“Don’t worry,” she began. “He’ll come around.” 

Padmé shot her a sideways glance. “Bail, or Obi-Wan?” 

This elicited a slight grin from the queen. “It’s funny, there was a time where everyone telling Bail ‘no’ would have been exactly the motivation he needed. Maybe it still is. I think he just needs time.” She turned to stare out at the still and silent skyline of the capital city. “As for General Kenobi, I think it’s best if we leave him be.” 

Padmé inhaled sharply through her nose in surprise. “He didn’t even stick around long enough to hear what we wanted.” 

“You know how he is. He knows what we’re up to, we don’t have to tell him. And if he says it’s unsafe to join us, I believe it.” Breha clasped her hands together and sighed. “However, I can’t shake the feeling that we still have his support, in a sense.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“His final words. They meant something. The Force will be with us, even if he can’t be.” She paused and looked squarely at Padmé. “I think he’s telling us to ask another Jedi.” 

Padmé said nothing, allowing silence to linger between them until Breha continued. 

“Now, I don’t know much about what happened with you and Bail on Naboo. He hasn’t told me, and I think it’s best to keep it that way. But I’ve heard enough to get the sense that Obi-Wan is not the only Jedi you know.” 

It wasn’t a question—and at the same time, it was. The words hung in the air and beckoned Padmé to confirm or deny them—but she maintained her silence and allowed Breha to speak again. 

“I want you to take the lead on this. Reach out to the Jedi, get their support. It may be the difference between our success and our failure.” 

“Of course,” she said with a nod. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Breha said, shoving away from the balcony and turning toward the residence door. “Take all the time you need.” With that, she disappeared inside. 

Padmé balanced her mug of tea on the terrace railing and withdrew her commlink from her belt once again. It was a strange feeling, needing to call a Jedi and knowing that the one at the forefront of her mind was the only one off the table. Stranger still was the fact that not a day earlier, that Jedi had called her. 

A message had pinged into existence on her commlink the moment they’d dropped out of hyperspace on their way to Alderaan; even in the brief descent to the planet she’d watched the damn thing enough times over to practically have it memorized. She didn’t have to pull it up and view it on her commlink; the voice of Obi-Wan Kenobi played itself back in her head yet again. 

_ Padmé, ah—I’m sorry to reach out this way. I stopped by the apartment; no one was there. Judging by Bail’s Senate calendar, you must’ve left the planet. I’ll just get right to the point: I saw Anakin.  _

She should’ve shut the message off right then and there; if she’d known what was good for her she wouldn’t have let it play any further. She could have arrived at Alderaan happy, assuming the best about her husband and her friend.  _ They’re speaking again _ , she would have told herself.  _ Getting along.  _ But she hadn’t stopped it. It had kept going. 

_ You really should hear this from him, but I’ll be honest: I’m not confident he’ll tell you. So I feel like I should. I asked him to—uh, I invited him to rejoin the Jedi. To come with me and defeat Maul.  _

Her hand had involuntarily flown to the piece of wood she still wore around her neck—the one her husband had carved from a very particular tree and given to her in a very particular location. The one that hadn’t pulsed with an inner warmth in so long she’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

_ He didn’t say yes _ —whether Padmé was supposed to be thankful for that, she still wasn’t certain— _ at least not right away. I’m not sure he ever will. But I thought you should know.  _

As she thought through his message, she fought the urge to knock her tea mug over the edge of the terrace. Padmé wasn’t sure who to be angry at. Obi-Wan had been right: Anakin hadn’t mentioned it. Granted, the couple had barely spoken—a hasty goodbye before she’d left with Bail and he’d left with Palpatine, and that was hardly the time to throw out a  _ by the way, I might rejoin the Jedi _ . But perhaps it was intentional, a secret he had made a point not to share with her.

Then again, the  _ nerve  _ of Kenobi to even ask him. After two years, two horrible grueling years of Anakin waking up screaming because he’d seen it again—seen the towers of Serenno sinking into the clouds. The nerve of him to bring up the mere idea of Anakin going back to the Jedi. 

And just as she was done convincing herself it was Obi-Wan she should be upset with, she remembered how good things had been when Anakin was a Jedi.

The best time of their life. Her and Anakin and Obi-Wan— _ and Liz,  _ she thought, fighting back tears as she kicked aimlessly at the grass—jetting off on the  _ Spice Dancer  _ for another adventure. They always had each other’s backs, nothing could have pulled them apart.

Once again, she felt herself running a thumb along the carved pendant at her throat. Feeling the gnarly surface slide across her skin. Picturing Anakin’s face when he’d given it to her.

This had been the cycle ever since she’d watched that gods-damned message from Obi-Wan. Playing it over in her head, getting angry with each of the two men in turn until sadness overwhelmed her and the message started over from the beginning.  _ Padmé, ah—I’m sorry to reach out this way.  _

She shoved it out of mind this time, turning her attention back to the commlink.  _ You’ve got a job to do, Amidala. And if Garm Bel Iblis isn’t going to see the writing on the wall and agree to help, you’re going to have to handle things yourself. _

_ The difference between success and failure,  _ Breha had called it. Padmé Amidala, who’d gotten sick to death of gods-damned Jedi, was now the only person who could get them enlisted for this crazy venture.

Kenobi’s message did present an interesting conundrum: her husband might become a Jedi again. Was  _ he  _ the one to reach out to, to invite into their illicit alliance against Palpatine? 

_ Hell no _ .  Anakin’s relationship with the Jedi—or lack of it—wasn’t even the issue. It was his relationship with Palpatine. If she brought this to him, he’d be as likely to turn Bail over to the authorities as he would be to go along with it. 

He couldn’t know.  _ Not yet. Maybe not ever _ . 

A deep sigh escaped Padmé’s mouth, the breath condensing into mist as it passed over her lips. Obi-Wan was off the table, and so was Anakin. That left . . .  _ not many options _ , she thought. 

Not many. But not zero either. 

Perhaps the time had come to reach out to the only other Jedi she knew how to get a hold of. One who would be more than happy to help take down Palpatine. 

Of that, she was certain.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CORELLIAN SECURITY FORCE** _

The Corellian Security Force, often referred to—even in an official capacity—by its nickname “CorSec,” is Corellia’s all-in-one planetary defense force, police department, emergency services crew, disaster relief agency, and more. Proponents of the planet-driven galactic defense model point to CorSec as a shining example of an effective local defense agency.  Within the umbrella of CorSec, everything from emergency medical technicians to park rangers to detectives all fall under the command of the Corellian Security Force Administrator—this position, appointed by Corellia’s General Assembly and ratified by a planetwide popular vote, is one of the most powerful offices on Corellia. 

Corellia’s culture of isolationism and planetary pride has contributed to CorSec’s unique position within the Republic. Unlike most planetary militaries, which operate on a volunteer recruitment model, service in CorSec is mandatory. Upon reaching adulthood, every Corellian citizen is compelled to serve for two years. At the completion of their service, should they choose to leave the Corellian Security Force, they are considered part of the CorSec Reserve for six years and may be called back into their role as needed—provided they remain on Corellia (Corellians who move offworld are exempt from the Reserve service requirement). “Dodging” service is nearly unheard of, and though there are no legal penalties for doing so it carries with it a great social stigma. Corellians who attempt to circumvent their service requirement are often shunned by their families and have great difficulty finding employment within their home system.


	13. A Stupid Plan (Part III: The Chancellor's Hand)

Seven speeder bikes shot across the barren expanse of Sluis Van. Arranged like birds in migratory flight, the diamond formation cast sprays of gravel backwards as it buzzed inches above the surface, each bike shrouded in darkness and muffled by the suppressors mounted against their engine exhausts. 

Anakin Skywalker rode at the formation’s center, surrounded by the six members of  _ Arbiter’ _ s ground crew. He was wrapped in a black cloak that whipped in the wind, his face covered by a hood that only somewhat shielded him from the dust and grit kicked up by the speeder in front of him. 

_ It was a stupid plan, Skywalker.  _

The voice that echoed in his head was not his own. It was his wife’s—the phrase had become a favorite of Padmé’s in their criminal days, one she’d pull out of her back pocket whenever that infamous Skywalker improvisation had come into play. Sometimes his “stupid plans,” cobbled together in slapdash fashion, had crumbled to pieces the moment they were put into action. Sometimes, like a miracle, he’d pull them off. 

No matter what, her response was always the same.  _ It was a stupid plan, Skywalker _ —it echoed once again in his skull. She’d emphasize a different word here or there, accompany it with a shoulder punch or a sly wink. When his name had been the word with all the weight behind it, that’s when Anakin knew he was really in trouble. 

“It was a stupid plan,  _ Skywalker.”  _

_ “What was that, sir?”  _ a voice sounded in his ear.

Anakin bit the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t realized that he’d just broadcast his mutterings across an open channel. “Nothing,” he barked. “Stay the course, head for the staging point.” 

A chorus of a half dozen  _ “aye-ayes”  _ buzzed over the comm, and Anakin shook his head. The fact was, this wasn’t even a stupid plan. It was no plan at all, and these people had blindly followed him into battle anyway. 

He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the  _ Arbiter  _ disappear over the horizon, then turned back around to see what lay ahead. In many ways it resembled the borders of a prison—a hulking duracrete wall lined with razor wire, dotted with guard towers and weapon implements. Turbolaser batteries placed at even intervals ensured no one dare attack with a warship; laser cannons nestled between them were meant to keep the smaller ships at bay. 

Only it wasn’t a prison; it was a terrestrial shipyard, the largest in this sector and all the sectors surrounding it—and Anakin had brought a half dozen soldiers on speeder bikes, with little more than “get some explosives over that wall” as a directive. They’d listened as the  _ Arbiter  _ had touched down kilometers away from the target, as they’d mounted the speeder bikes and taken formation, shooting off across the moonlit sands toward the impenetrable fortress. 

_ Stupid plan. Stupid, stupid— _

An explosion of heat and dust sprayed into the air; a flash of green cut across Anakin’s vision, shattering the cool blue hues of twilight. Bits of sand half turned to glass rained down upon him as his speeder bike sliced through the particulate shower that hung in the air—beneath his bike, he could see the charred impact point of a turbolaser blast. 

He keyed on his comm and shouted, “Scatter!” 

Seven speeder bikes swerved in seven different directions as lances of plasma arced outward from the shipyard wall and toward their broken formation. Each impact sounded like a drumbeat, sending a spray of gravel into the air as it smacked into the ground. 

Anakin wrenched his bike’s throttle as hard as he could manage—the force of his mechanical wrist nearly ripped the handle free of its housing, though he could hardly hear the sound of the protesting metal over the whine of his engine. Suppressor or not, he was now pushing the machine nearly to its limit, throwing his weight back and forth in an unpredictable rhythm. The bike snaked across the sand, its repulsors throwing spurts of sand sideways with each microturn. 

The serpentine pattern threatened to make his stomach churn almost as much as his nerves did—even as he swerved the bike to avoid getting melted by a laser cannon, his eyes darted across the landscape in a frantic attempt to make sure his entire crew was still breathing. 

He counted each bike as he locked eyes with it, though things were moving too fast for him to nail down exactly who he was counting. Then again, perhaps it didn’t matter. As long as everyone made it to the staging point—

Another drumbeat of a turbolaser blast sent shockwaves through the air, this one decidedly more . . . metallic. Anakin glanced to his right to see a speeder bike turning over in the air, its engine on fire and its armored passenger sailing toward an impending impact with the ground. Gritting his teeth, Anakin yanked his bike toward the flaming wreckage.

“I’ve got him!” he shouted over the comm to no one in particular—as if anybody but Anakin would be reckless enough to attempt this sort of thing. He watched as the burning speeder bike bounced along the ground, his eyes darting between it and the man clad in plastoid who was skidding along the sand behind it. Easing his speeder forward, Anakin reached down toward the ground with his mechanical hand, squeezing it into a fist as he passed over the fallen trooper.

With great effort—the motors in his arm screeched in protest and a yelp of pain escaped his lips—Anakin hauled the trooper up onto the back of his speeder just in time to grab the handlebars with both hands and yank the vehicle clear of the burning wreckage before them. Exhaling deeply, he guided his vehicle toward where the rest of his squad had come to rest—the so-called “staging area,” a point about a kilometer away from the shipyard wall that was shielded by a cluster of large boulders. Brining the speeder to a gentle stop, he swung a leg over and hopped to the ground, reaching out a hand to help his battered passenger. 

“You alright, Doc?” Anakin asked. The Republic trooper, clad in a grey plastoid armor featuring blue accents, tilted his helmeted head to one side as he gingerly eased himself to the ground. Anakin continued, stumbling over his words. “Doc, uh, Doctor—”

“ _ Medic, _ ” the man corrected—his right arm sported a band with the Republic insignia for medical personnel. “Medic VF-104.” He snapped into a salute. “But Weston is fine. Just Weston. Not a doctor.” With that, he brushed past Anakin and moved toward where the rest of the crew was unloading gear from their speeder bikes. 

The drumbeat of turbolaser fire pounded at the door for a few moments—Anakin placed his flesh hand against one of the boulders that was acting as cover, feeling the vibrations through the rock as each lance of energy slammed into it.  _ One. Two. Three,  _ he counted them—and then they stopped. 

“They quit shooting,” one of his soldiers remarked— _ Thorm,  _ Anakin reminded himself. A combat engineer, judging by the yellow accents on his helmet and armor. Thorm looked up from the saddlebag of his speeder bike as he withdrew a blaster pistol from it. “That’s good, right?” 

“They quit shooting  _ for now _ because they can’t hit us,” Anakin said with a shake of his head. “They’ll send guards, or fire homing rockets, or find some other way to break our cover. We can’t stay here.” 

A guttural cough, one modulated by the helmet of a soldier with a red faceplate, cut through the chilled night air. “I don’t get it,” the trooper said, slinging a belt of explosives over his shoulder as he stepped away from his speeder bike. “We plotted our route here, we were flying in the blind spots of the guard tower. They shouldn’t have seen us.” 

“No they shouldn’t have,” another trooper spoke up—this one wore different armor from the rest. Lighter but more flexible, with fewer plastoid plates. The requisition officer back on the  _ Arbiter  _ had called it scout armor. 

The woman wearing it had been the only person on the squad to introduce herself to Anakin. Though the rest had acted strange when he’d arrived in the hangar, as though he didn’t exist and they weren’t to speak unless spoken to, she’d approached him while they were loading cargo onto the  _ Arbiter  _ before takeoff. Scout helmet tucked under one arm, she’d extended the other to greet him. 

_ “It’s an honor to be working with you, sir,”  _ she’d said, grasping his hand firmly. He remembered feeling outplayed, as though this woman in scout armor knew more about him than he knew about her. 

_ “Good to meet you,”  _ he’d replied, trailing off. 

_ “Ranger VF-102,”  _ she had finished for him. __

Anakin had grimaced and glanced at the deck.  _ “How about your name?”  _

_ “Ranger Amina, then,”  _ she’d said. The barest hint of a smile had crossed her lips; then, with a nod, she’d donned her helmet and made way for the  _ Arbiter.  _

Now, Amina stood near the edge of one of the giant boulders that shielded the squad from fire. She gestured beyond the rock, in the direction of the shipyard wall. “They shouldn’t have, but they did. Did you see the way the tower was reflecting the moonlight when we got close? I think the whole damn thing is made of transparisteel.” 

Anakin fought the urge to curse. The worry had itched at the back of his mind ever since the first turbolaser blast had slammed into the sand in front of him. A normal duracrete tower would have had structural components, load-bearing beams and segments between its windows that would have allowed them to slip through the cracks. Sluis Van Shipyards, it seemed, wasn’t using normal guard towers. 

“It is,” Anakin said, nodding slowly at Amina. “It’s called a panopticon.” He started pacing in the sand, back and forth within the short range that the safety of their natural cover would allow. “Czerka must have sold it to them, back when the Confederacy was still getting along. The outside is like a big mirror, but from inside you can see  _ everything.  _ No blind spots.” 

With a groan, one of the troopers hoisted a handheld blaster cannon off the back of his speeder bike. His armor bore red accents too, though they were much sparser than Manik’s.  _ VF-106,  _ Anakin recalled.  _ Heavy trooper. Vetrovich, wasn’t it?  _

“Doesn’t matter what it’s made of, we can still knock it down,” Vetrovich said, shifting his grip on the handheld cannon.

“Not with that, you can’t,” Anakin said. “The mirror finish and the structural enhancements make the stuff pretty energy resistant. It’s like magnetically sealed metal; even your heavy fire will bounce right off.” 

“It’s got to have some weakness,” Thorm said, leaning against his speeder bike and crossing his arms—plastoid clacked against plastoid, the sound of sand grinding against itself crackled from beneath his boots. 

Anakin nodded. “Glass shatters,” he said with a shrug. 

A half dozen blank helmets stared back at him. He wasn’t sure if the wheels were turning in each of their heads, or if they were simply waiting to be told what to do. 

Amina was the first to speak. “Physical projectiles, then?” She pointed at one of the others. “Herrel, get me the cycler rifle.” 

“Wait,” Anakin said, holding up his mechanical hand. “Not until we have a plan.”  _ You idiot,  _ he immediately thought to himself.  _ Don’t admit you have no plan.  _

Then again, what plan  _ could  _ he have? He’d been sent to attack a shipyard that couldn’t be attacked from the air. Flying, perhaps the one thing he was confident about, was off the table. And now they’d discovered that a groundside assault was equally impossible. 

This, he feared, wasn’t working. Not just this specific mission, but the entire idea of him being in charge of soldiers. It just wasn’t how he operated. Acting on the fly and risking his own ass was one thing; doing it with the lives of several other people was something else entirely. 

Afterimages of  _ Lancer _ shots tearing through city blocks flashed across his eyes. Curdled memories of the one time Obi-Wan had trusted him to plan alone. Now these people, who’d only met him a day before, were ready to charge into battle with him when it was obvious he had no idea what he was doing. 

Then again, Palpatine had placed him here knowing full well how he did things. Was this what the chancellor wanted? Risky improvisation as a companion to the carefully considered military action of the Grand Army of the Republic? Perhaps it was. As wrong as it felt, maybe making things up was exactly what Anakin was supposed to do. 

He allowed himself a few moments to do a Jedi breathing exercise. He may not have been connected to the Force, but he didn’t need to be. He just needed to stay calm.

“Okay,” he finally said aloud after the silence had gone on just long enough to be awkward. “The first priority is getting our explosives over the wall, and we don’t need everyone for that.” 

“You have something, then?” Amina asked, tilting her helmeted head to one side. 

He nodded, and a confident Skywalker grin flashed across his face. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” 

The speeder bike beneath Anakin sang as he spun up the engine. His squad had taken a split formation; four of them, including him, sat atop speeder bikes behind one end of the boulder that was their shield. The other three were on the opposite end brandishing various weapons; beside them, two speeder bikes sat idle. 

“Once we’re over the wall,” Anakin instructed, shifting his position on the bike to glance at each soldier in turn, “fire several shots at whatever is left of that panopticon tower. Make it seem like there are more than three of you.” 

“How are we supposed to do that?” one of them—Herrel, the one sporting the cycler rifle—asked. 

Anakin shrugged. “Hold a gun in each hand. When you think you’ve made enough noise, hop on the bikes and haul ass back to the  _ Arbiter.  _ Tell the captain to wait for two sets of explosions before taking off.” He glanced over at two of the bikes beside him. Engineer Thorm and grenadier Manik—each wearing a pack that contained several explosive devices—nodded sharply.

“We only get one shot at this, people. Let’s move!” 

Pressing his feet into the stirrups of the speeder bike, Anakin slammed the throttle forward. From beside him he heard the whine of three identical speeder engines, muffled somewhat by their exhaust suppressors. On the opposite end of the boulder pile, sprays of weapons fire erupted. 

As he shot across the open plain, Anakin watched out of the corner of his eye at the fire bound for the panopticon tower.  _ It’s a good plan, Skywalker,  _ he thought to himself as the  _ zing  _ of cycler bullets pierced the air and cracked against the glass of the tower. 

Next came the blaster fire; a heavy repeating cannon wielded by Vetrovich. The rain of bright red bolts were aimed not at the tower itself, but at the ground just below it. As the darts of plasma smacked into the ground, they sent a spray of rocks and debris shooting up into the base of the panopticon—the brittle, fragile, transparisteel base. Even in the dim moonlight, Anakin could see a spider web of cracks begin to dance its way up the tower. A cycler bullet would smack into the glass, its impact point providing the next destination for the fractures snaking along the mirrored panels, and then the process would repeat itself again. 

Then the base of the tower shattered, and the observation platform atop it came tumbling forward over the wall. 

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Their approach was lined up perfectly, the collapsing structure of the panopticon was their ticket over the hulking barrier of duracrete. For a moment, it was just him and the bike and the air, and everything felt okay again.

He hadn’t flown in years. Not like  _ this _ , anyway—he’d piloted speeders, but they were sluggish passenger vehicles meant for navigating Coruscant’s traffic-choked sky. The bike was  _ perfect _ —it moved with the slightest touch, the degree of fine control so responsive Anakin felt that he could twitch and change its course by fractions of an inch. Wind whipped by his face, clawing at his hair and kicking up grit that spattered against his skin like tiny needles. Even with its suppressor, which did its best to muffle sound, Anakin could hear the bike rumbling beneath him, vibrating with contained power. At the corners of his vision, he could see Amina and Thorm and Manik on their own bikes, tight on his heels.

It almost felt like something out of time. As though he could hang in the air, suspended, forever, always moving and never arriving.

Then a fresh volley of turret fire erupted from atop the wall, and he forced his thoughts sharp.

The duracrete loomed larger every second—as they approached the base of the wall and their improvised ramp over it, it suddenly felt as tall as anything Anakin had seen on Coruscant.

As he shot up the spine of the collapsed panopticon and crested the duracrete wall surrounding the shipyard, sharp thoughts became muddled with panic. His target was nowhere in sight. There were administrative buildings and parts factories as plain as day several kilometers away, their smokestacks pumping thick plumes into the night sky. Parking lots packed with employee speeders, and landing pads with starfighters and shuttles—but between all of that and the wall, a vast expanse of  _ nothing  _ stretched across the ground. 

For a supposed operational shipyard, Sluis Van seemed sorely lacking in actual starships. Anakin swore under his breath as his speeder bike coasted to the ground—slamming on the airbrakes, he forced it to a stop.

“Where the hell is the target?” Amina hissed, her speeder pulling up alongside Anakin’s. 

For a moment, he thought of Obi-Wan. With him this would have been easy— _ just get inside the compound and ask the Force to point the way . . . _

_ Stop,  _ he scolded himself.  _ It’s not like you and Padmé couldn’t sneak into unfamiliar places before you knew you had . . . it. Use some old tricks. _

“Uh,” he said aloud, hurriedly scanning the space before him—and then he saw it. 

The expanse before him wasn’t completely empty, though from this angle the optical illusion was quite convincing. Even so, he could just make out a streak of blackness against the sand. A canyon cut through the rocky desert. A thick, crooked scar—not the gentle sort of canyon formed by water erosion over millions of years. This one looked as though a great being had reached down from the heavens and tried to rip the continent in two.

The intelligence documents he’d studied on the flight to Sluis Van mentioned one critical detail, the detail he’d hinged this entire operation on. The Sluissi built their ships in “stacks.” As a capital ship was assembled, its repulsorlifts—the first of its propulsion systems to be completed, laced throughout the chassis—raised it slowly upward, making room for the next skeleton to begin below.

He’d expected to find these stacks out in the open, suspended in a web of scaffolding. But of course they didn’t build them that way. The ships would have been completely exposed on all sides, vulnerable to attack from any direction. 

They must have built them  _ in  _ the canyon. 

“This way!” he said, throwing the bike’s throttle wide open. His speeder zoomed across the expanse, his three companions tight on his heels. 

The canyon’s edge was approaching now, faster than Anakin would have liked. Wind tossed his hair about, threatened to dry out his eyes and throat as it sliced past him—but he couldn’t afford to slow down. Out here they were visible; if they could get down into the canyon fast enough, they might avoid detection. 

Of course, there was the matter of safely descending into it. Anakin had no idea how deep the canyon was—or, more critically, how deep the stack of ships was stored. A speeder bike could survive a decent drop, like the one they’d just made over the shipyard wall. Hundreds of feet, though? Perhaps even more? Out of the question. Their bikes would hurtle out of control, falling unguided, powerless lumps of metal spiraling through the air.

_ Unless . . .  _

“We’re going into the canyon,” he called out over the comm. “As soon as you’re over the edge, cut your engines!” 

A mix of responses sounded in his ear. Two voices, confused and horrified, called out a chorus of “what?” 

One voice, a woman’s, simply said “aye aye.” 

And then he cleared the lip of the canyon. 

The Force, he pondered, may have been effective at slowing time, but it wasn’t the only thing that did so. Plain old adrenaline would do the trick, as it was doing with him now—for a moment, he saw everything in a top-down view with perfect, crystalline focus. Set deep within the canyon were massive oblong shapes arranged in a row like a parade or a funeral procession, the sinuous curves of their hulls reminiscent of the Sluissi shipcrafters themselves. They were shrouded in shadow, and seemed impossibly far away and yet dangerously close at the same time.

In the space between and around them, the canyon plunged into blackness.

Anakin absorbed the black for an unpleasantly long time, captivated by the sight and unable to even check behind him to see whether his companions were in the same state.

Then the bike’s nose lurched sharply downward.

He cut the engine.

And plummeted straight down.

* * *

Without the main engine’s roar, Anakin plunged into silence—the wind buffeting at his face was nothing more than a distant hum. Exhaling sharply, he gave a silent prayer of thanks to . . . well, whatever. He had somehow pulled it off. 

When the main engine had cut and the bike had entered freefall, its nose swept down til it formed a ninety-degree angle with the ground—and then, rather than continuing to spin, it stayed firmly pointed at the bottom of the canyon.

As far as the repulsors were concerned,  _ the ground _ was now the sheer canyon wall.

Now he just needed to wait.

In the center of his vision he could see the dorsal surface of a Sluissi capital ship growing ever larger; despite the wind and the ever-present sense of gravity pulling him forward, Anakin somehow got the sense that the ship was hurtling toward him and not the other way around. 

It occurred to him that only half the job was done, and perhaps his thanks had been premature. He’d made the transition from driving along the ground to driving down a wall, but switching  _ back  _ was perhaps the trickier bit. A silent countdown echoed in his head, based on nothing but a gut feeling that  _ if I don’t want to die I need to engage the engine— _

_ Now! _

Shouting with the strain, he yanked upward on the handlebars, triggered the main engine, and braked.

The bike  _ screeched _ as it was ripped back to forward position, and for a moment of blind panic Anakin was afraid he hadn’t done things quickly enough, that he would just continue to fall forever—and then the repulsors caught against the outer hull of the capital ship, and he was floating.

Adrenaline pounding at his head so hard that it felt as though he would pass out, he just sat there choking out ragged breaths.  _ You’re not dead, you’re not deadyou’renotdeadyou’renotdead  _ was the only thing his mind was capable of thinking. He would be in a sizable amount of pain later—what he’d just done to his arms was in no way good even considering his mechanical hand’s assistance—but for now there was just the shock of being alive.

An equally horrid mechanical screech sounded as Amina’s speeder bike wobbled into position beside his own. Anakin raised an eyebrow and offered the ranger a nod—though her landing hadn’t been as clean as his, she  _ had  _ pulled it off. 

A new panic flashed through his head— _ Wait, the other two, where the hell are the other two.  _ Still choking on exhaust and dust, he rasped into his comm, “Thorm, Manik, did you two make it?”

“ _ Behind you, sir, _ ” crackled his earpiece.

Twisting around hard enough that the bike gave an alarming lurch, Anakin caught sight of two shapes floating toward him, one flecked with yellow, the other with red. Neither one was riding a bike, which should have been impossible—but then Anakin looked up and saw that both of them were suspended from thin, black pieces of blastweave. 

_ Parachutes.  _

They came down on either side of him, cutting their chutes loose as they gained their footing on the starship’s hull. “Apologies, sir,” Manik said, managing to sound a touch shaken despite the helmet, “but we lost the bikes.”

Anakin resisted the urge to peer over the nearby edge of the capital ship—it’d probably just give him vertigo—and offered Thorm and Manik a shrug. “Let’s hope they don’t hit anything on the way down. I think we might have made it here undetected, wouldn’t want falling wreckage giving us away.” Then, glancing at Amina: “The bikes will seat two. Give them yours, you can ride with me.” 

The ranger offered a silent nod as she dismounted the speeder bike, her boots clacking against the strangely smooth surface of the warship hull. 

“Now what?” 

Thorm’s question was a fair one, though Anakin was hesitant to admit that he hadn’t really thought that far ahead. He’d been preoccupied—first with getting over the wall and into the shipyard, then finding these supposed “stacks” of vessels, then getting down into the canyon alive and undetected.  _ Now what, indeed?  _

He took a few steps away from the trio of helmeted troopers, gazing down the flowing metal expanse of the capital ship’s hull, past the bow and beyond to the next stack of ships in the canyon. The topmost ship looked finished, at least to the naked eye. Bits and pieces were missing from the ship below it. The one below that was even less complete, on and on until the sixth ship, lit only by worklamps and spotlights mounted at the lower recesses of the canyon. The bottom of the stack was a skeleton of steel that barely resembled the finished product at the top.

“You know, when the intel said they built them in stacks, I thought it meant they’d be held up by scaffolding,” he said, more to himself than to his accompanying soldiers. “Scaffolding we could blow up,” he added, turning toward Manik with a knowing glance. “But they’re not. Look at them.” He pointed with a mechanical finger. “They’re just . . . floating.” 

“Repulsorlifts,” Amina muttered, her helmet almost completely muffling the near whisper. 

“It’s almost elegant, when you think about it,” Anakin continued. “When the ship on top is finished, they can just fly it away. Float the rest of the stack up a little, start building the next one on the bottom. Keeps the partial ships protected from an airstrike.”

Then there was an inward hiss—a gasp filtered through Amina’s helmet. “But if the one on top falls—”

“The whole thing crumbles like a house of cards,” Anakin finished for her, nodding as he said it. “We get inside and blow up the repulsor coils, or whatever’s powering them, and it’ll crush the whole stack.” He glanced past Thorm and Manik, to the stack visible just behind this capital ship’s engine housing. “We’ll find a way inside this ship. You two can ride aft and take the stack behind this one.” 

A modulated laugh emerged from Manik’s helmet as he rubbed his hands together. “Two bombs bringing down a dozen capital ships. I like that math.” 

“Think you’ll still like it after you put this on?” Thorm asked—he’d extracted two black belts from the pack on his back and was dangling them both in the air. Anakin looked at the loops of fabric with one eyebrow raised—each sported a small metal box along their length. 

“What’re those?” 

“We’ve got a target now,” Manik said, snatching one of the belts from Thorm. Shifting uncomfortably as he draped it around his body, he tightened it not across his waist, but his chest. “Briefing documents were very clear. Bomb goes off no matter what.” As he cinched the belt tight, a green light came to life on the metal box, which was resting near his heart. 

“Dead man’s switch,” Thorm added, gesturing with the other belt before extending it toward Anakin. “Connected to the heart rate monitors in our armor.” 

Before he could grab it, Amina snatched it away. “I’ll take that.” Turning to look at Anakin, she shook her head. “Under no circumstances are you supposed to wear one. Briefing documents were very clear about that too.” She wrapped the belt around her chest and yanked it tight; the metal box affixed to the belt came to life with an identical green light. From Thorm’s pack she extracted the corresponding explosive device and carried it over to the saddlebag on Anakin’s speeder bike. 

_ What briefing documents?  _ He didn’t dare say it out loud—best not to look unprepared in front of the troops—but the intelligence reports he’d read had made no mention of anything like this. Hadn’t Palpatine sourced these soldiers from the old peacekeeping force on Naboo?  _ And now he’s got them doing . . . well, whatever the hell this is.  _

It seemed a bit extreme, but he was in no position to argue with the “briefing documents” considering he hadn’t read them.

“Moving on,” he muttered; then, louder: “extraction should be simple enough. A ship of this size will have a big corridor running down the spine. Used for quickly moving crew and cargo. Get your speeder bike in there and you should be able to get it up to full speed. Fly straight for the nose of the warship and blow a hole in it; the  _ Arbiter  _ will be waiting to catch you on the way out.” 

Three plastoid chins clacked against three plastoid chestplates—silent nods of acknowledgement. 

“One more thing,” Anakin said. “We’ll want to time our detonations. The captain’s listening for two explosions as the takeoff signal, so we won’t want to set things off too close together.” He took out his commlink and jammed his thumb against the transmit button several times in rapid succession. In his ear, he heard the sound—a hurried staccato of  _ clicks _ . “That’s the ready signal. Wait until we’ve heard it from each other. After that, Manik and Thorm will set their bomb off first. Amina and I will follow. Other than that I want radio silence. Got it?” 

“Aye aye!” 

Pocketing his commlink, Anakin swung a leg over his speeder bike and revved the engine. He felt the bike dip a bit as Amina hopped on it behind him. A glance to his side revealed Manik and Thorm had taken a similar position on their borrowed bike. He nodded at the two of them and twisted the bike’s throttle again.

“Move out!” 

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: PANOPTICON** _

Panopticon is a product developed and sold by Czerka Arms Corporation. Though the name has come to refer to a type of transparisteel, the original panopticon product was a security watchtower constructed out of this material, sold to a private prison corporation in the Outer Rim. 

The panopticon towers crafted by Czerka lack the blind spots of a traditional duracrete watchtower, offering occupants complete visibility of the outside. Additionally, a microlattice used to reinforce the transparisteel gives it a high level of energy resistance—the glass behaves as though it were magnetically sealed and is thus resistant to all but the heaviest of blaster fire. 

Panopticon transparisteel is not widely used within the Galactic Republic, owing to Cerka’s relationship with the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Additionally, the towers are victim to a notable weakness—the microlattice which gives the glass its energy resistance also makes it more brittle than typical transparisteel. In 1124, prisoners in the Ord Binir Private Correctional Facility staged a daring escape, toppling a panopticon guard tower by shattering its windows with improvised slugthrowers, which caved the roof in and crushed the occupants inside as the tower collapsed on itself. 


	14. Of Special Investigations (Part III: The Chancellor's Hand)

Before stepping up into the interview room, Obi-Wan reflexively checked his belt for the umpteenth time to make sure his lightsaber wasn’t there. For the umpteenth time, it wasn’t—he’d left it back in his apartment before catching public transit to the plaza. Ordinarily when he was in a public place he simply kept the weapon concealed up his sleeve, but today felt . . . different. The Force had no concrete warnings for him, but all the same, the lingering unease he’d been feeling since the meeting with Luminara and Qlik was enough. Best not to carry secrets with him.

_ You’ve no weapon, you’ve done nothing wrong, and you’re late. Come on. _

Squaring his shoulders, he pushed the door open.

Much like the rest of the Office of Special Investigations, a building so nondescript that Obi-Wan must have passed it every time he entered Capitol Plaza and simply never noticed, the interview room was a study in anonymity. Beige walls, a simple table equipped with central holoprojector, and three chairs. One stood at the side of the table nearest Obi-Wan—the other two were occupied by inhabitants as beige as the walls.

Both were human, and both were dressed in nearly identical formal wear. The one on the left, Obi-Wan noticed with a vague sense of irritation, must have been a good ten years his junior, with a shock of sandy hair that spoiled his otherwise polished appearance; the other man was squarer, greyer, with a bulbous nose and a smile that if nothing else seemed more genuine than his companion’s.

Through the Force, both reeked of ill intent.

The older one stood first, reaching forward to shake Obi-Wan’s hand. “General Kenobi, a pleasure. Anton Vargot.” Obi-Wan was careful to return a smile that matched Vargot’s politeness and went no further, then extended his hand to the young man.

The grip he received was perfunctory, as though this one didn’t want anything to rub off on him. “Ponce Held,” the man said in a clipped tone, immediately withdrawing his hand and returning to his seat.

Under other circumstances, Obi-Wan would have been slightly amused by the uninspired nature of the interrogation setup. At the moment, he was feeling unsettled by the fact that this was clearly what it was.

“Thank you very much for coming, General,” said Vargot, settling back in his chair with a low grunt. “Of course, in the aftermath of this tragedy, we want to make sure all of us are doing our utmost to ensure no such damage can befall the Republic again. I’m sure that, as a retired Defense Force officer, you feel the same way.”

“Of course.” After this response, both interviewers simply . . . sat there, just long enough for Obi-Wan to know they were doing it on purpose. Then, clearing his throat, Vargot continued.

“Now, you were a member of the Defense Force for some . . . thirteen years, is that correct, General?”

“Yes,” replied Obi-Wan, keeping his voice pleasant.  _ Don’t act annoyed at the quiet, see if you can’t irritate them by cooperating.  _ “After I left school I joined up. I was a general for six years, after which I retired.”

“Retired,” Ponce Held said abruptly, drawing out the word in a sneer. “Weren’t discharged?”

The Jedi injected just enough ice into his smile to let the younger man know he saw exactly what the two of them were attempting to do. “Resigned my commission with the Royal House of Alderaan and took my leave.”

“After the siege of Serenno, yes?” Vargot shook his head, a shade of solemnity entering his expression—Obi-Wan probed and found it genuine, if shallow, the kind of sorrow one would feel watching a newsvid and seeing that a storm had destroyed some homes several systems over. “Such a tragedy. I must tell you, General, being here, seeing all the death that occurred . . . I can’t imagine having to go through that more than once. I’m so sorry.”

As Obi-Wan nodded, he kept his eyes on Ponce Held. The young man reached up for his stray flap of blonde and combed his fingers through it quickly, almost reflexively, as though trying to force it to stay put. His eyes flicked to Vargot, then back to Obi-Wan, as he spoke. “It’s curious to me that, as the man who oversaw the—shall I say disastrous?—defense that led to Serenno’s near destruction, you were allowed simply to resign and retire in peace. In other circumstances, I imagine an investigation might have been conducted. Much like the one that is currently underway.”

_ Whatever this investigation is, it’s not about Coruscant,  _ Obi-Wan knew then and there.  _ And it’s probably not about me. Not directly. _

Whatever it  _ was _ about was very, very bad.

Now it was his turn to say nothing. He simply stayed fixed and upright in his chair, eyebrow arched just enough to indicate  _ I’m waiting for your question.  _ Ponce Held sniffed once, sharply, as if in an allergic spasm, and then said, “Bail Organa did not see fit to inquire as to your conduct while under his command?”

“Bail Organa does not oversee the Defense Force,” Obi-Wan replied, letting his fear prove useful and manifest itself as a note of iron behind the statement. “Chancellor Palpatine does.”

“Did,” Vargot put in helpfully. “Before it was reorganized into the Grand Army.”

“Quite.”

Raising a hand to cut off his junior’s next barrage, Vargot gave a low chuckle and threw Obi-Wan a look that could be roughly translated as  _ Kids these days, eh?  _ Aloud, he said, “But General Kenobi, speaking from the realm of politics, we both know that it’s not a Chancellor’s job to involve himself in military investigations, especially not under the old Defense Force system. You served the Republic, yes, but you answered to the Royal House of Alderaan—in fact, I believe that’s how you put it just now, isn’t it?  _ Resigned my commission with the Royal House of Alderaan.  _ Not  _ Resigned my commission with the Republic.  _ It’s a matter of course that, were there to be an investigation into your conduct, Bail Organa would be the one to order it—or to not order it, as was the case.”

The error was so unforced that Obi-Wan for a moment was overcome with pure frustration at himself.  _ Self-flagellation won’t get you anywhere, _ he thought, and allowed himself a single, shallow inhalation and exhalation that he hoped the Force would utilize to calm him as best it could. Before the pause could stretch into something incriminating, he replied, “Indeed—as was the case. Mr. Vargot, with due respect, I have to say I am unclear on how the issue of whether Bail Organa was justified in his acceptance of my resignation is relevant to the attack on Coruscant.”

“You’ve continued working with Senator Organa since he accepted your resignation, have you not?” Ponce Held asked, that incongruous shock of hair catching the overhead light in a way that seemed to amplify the urgency of the question. “I believe the official term is ‘consultant.’”

“I’ve offered him my assistance as an advisor, yes.”

“Curious, don’t you think, that he should still rely so deeply on the advice of a former soldier whose last act was to allow thousands of noncombatants to be killed? Who, prior to that,  _ enabled _ Senator Organa in starting a war whose death toll is in the millions and growing by the day?”

Once again, Obi-Wan found himself bristling at the nerve of a man barely out of university interrogating him, but he forced the feeling down.  _ Think.  _ Reaching out with the Force, he delved into Ponce Held’s aura and felt the simple cleanliness of a man who said as he felt. The boy was playing a role here, of course, but it was a role in line with his feelings—beneath the surface he was the same buzzing temper and snide contempt.

Beneath Anton Vargot’s surface emotions, on the other hand, the Jedi felt deeper workings—steady, passionless calculating.  _ Ponce Held is the one who’s here to goad you into a trap. Vargot will be the one to spring it. _

The strategy was simple, then. Ignore Ponce Held. Let that agitate the boy enough that perhaps  _ he _ spilled something. Treat Vargot as the only equal in the room.

To that end, rather than replying to the young man, Obi-Wan bypassed him entirely. “Mr. Vargot, you’ve not answered my question. What does any of this have to do with the stated reason for my being here?”

Once again, before the junior member could snap at the Jedi, Vargot chuckled and raised a hand. “Forgive us, General, please. We don’t want to be rude, especially when touching on such . . . sensitive areas. It’s just that, as you’ll surely agree, we’re all shaken at this breach of the planet’s defenses. We want to make sure our security is in the most optimal condition—gaps in that security can be exploited to unconscionable ends, as we all witnessed over these last several weeks. My colleague and I”—the barest flick of a condescending glance at Ponce Held, as if to assure Obi-Wan that “colleague” was purely a nicety—“are of the opinion that if you want to shore up gaps, you’d best look at where they appeared in the past. Simply good bookkeeping.”

He could rebuff this, clamp down entirely and refuse to talk. But not only would that imply guilt, it would let the two of them know Obi-Wan had detected their true target here and was protecting him.  _ Being uncooperative won’t save Bail. You have to play along just enough.  _ And so he nodded and said, “Of course I understand.” Keeping his eyes fixed on the older interviewer as though he’d asked the question rather than Ponce Held, whose mouth worked in minute little jolts at the slight, the Jedi said, “As far as Senator Organa’s reasons for continuing to seek out my advice, the two of us had a close working relationship over my time in the Defense Force and his time as a politician. And while I’m no longer an active member of the military, he finds my familiarity with the broader galaxy useful. I wouldn’t presume to advise him on matters of war—as you pointed out, my last campaign ended badly.” Here, finally, he turned to the younger interviewer and offered a smile that showed just a hint of teeth. “But I’ve had experiences he has not. He appreciates a broad perspective.”

“A close working relationship seems an understatement.” Ponce Held had pulled himself as erect as seemed possible, perhaps to emphasize that he was just slightly taller than Obi-Wan. “As I said, it was you, General Kenobi, who by accepting an extralegal mission to Had Abbadon enabled him to begin—”

“I’m sure General Kenobi doesn’t need us to remind him how the war began, Ponce,” said Vargot, who’d given up the pretense of looking at the other man at all. As he spoke, Obi-Wan reached into him and felt that simple reptile’s calculation once more.

Though—and this was curious—Vargot’s calculation . . . didn’t seem to be leading toward the question he was about to ask.

“That said, General,” the older man continued, folding his hands together to form one loose fist, “my colleague is correct. For you to commit to an action you knew Bail Organa had no authorization to command . . . it must have been a quandary.”

Carefully restraining himself from frowning, Obi-Wan plumbed deeper into the Force and willed it to slow things—not by much, just enough that he’d have a few precious seconds longer to ponder this. As soon as Ponce Held had brought up Bail, Obi-Wan had thought he’d known where this was going—the endpoint was  _ so _ obvious it couldn’t have been anything else. Palpatine was using the CIS attack to tie up as many loose ends as he could, starting with the formation of a unified military that had been his dream since the prototype Peacekeeping Corps on Naboo. This, then, was simply another one of those loose ends—using an official government inquiry as a pretext to bring up Bail’s old sins and remove him from senatorial office.

But Vargot’s mind didn’t show that line of thought as an endgame. It was simply a waypoint—one placed along the route to a different, murkier goal for this conversation.

What that goal was Obi-Wan couldn’t discern—whatever Vargot might have been, he wasn’t weak-minded, and the Jedi couldn’t afford to take the time to penetrate his mental walls.  _ But if it’s not Bail and the war . . . _

Aware that he’d taken just a moment too long to reply, Obi-Wan snapped back to real time and said, “He was my commander in chief. I obeyed his orders. I would have done the same regardless of who was in power.”

“But you agreed with him?” asked Ponce Held in a rush, forcing the words out before Vargot could cut him off. “That his orders were ultimately correct.” His expression held a strange triumph, and the older man shot him a look that Obi-Wan could see carried none of the calculation of the previous ones—this wasn’t a move made to engender Obi-Wan’s good graces but genuine anger. But Ponce Held spared his partner no glances in return—he kept his eyes on Obi-Wan, their sharp gleam contrasting with his absurd scruff of hair.

One strategy of Obi-Wan’s, at least, had paid off. He’d irritated the young man into reasserting his importance—into giving away a move he shouldn’t have.

_ They don’t actually care about Bail. But Ponce Held cares very deeply about my answer to that question. Curious. _

Regardless of curiosity, though, Obi-Wan had no intention of carrying this any further. He’d engineered a single slip from his interviewers—he likely wouldn’t get another one, not on this uneven conversational ground. And whether or not Bail was the reason they’d brought him here, he was under no circumstances going to say anything further about his friend. “I will not comment on that. As I said, the Chancellor gave me an order. I obeyed. My feelings don’t enter into it.” As he formed his next words, he imbued them with a touch of Force power—one that he hoped would make his interviewers just a bit more amenable to what he had to say. “Gentlemen, with due respect, if you have no questions that pertain to your stated purpose, this is a waste of all our time. I really must be going.”

Pushing his chair back and rising, he watched the pair closely. For a moment, Ponce Held’s eyes went slightly glassy, and he himself half-rose from the table. Then, a Vargot whose gaze was quite clear reached over and gripped his partner by the sleeve. That polite affability slipping just enough for an edge to be detected, he said to Obi-Wan, “It would be very helpful to us if you were to stay for further questioning, General. In fact I really must insist—”

Here, at last, Obi-Wan let his own mask fully slip. He spoke not with the measured politeness that was his custom but with the sharp tone he had, in his past life, reserved for giving subordinates who truly needed a dressing down. “If you are not going to charge me with something, Mr. Vargot, then you have no pretext under which to hold me. I respectfully decline, and bid both of you a good day. I hope for our citizenry’s sake that the rest of this inquiry is focused on Coruscant, and on those responsible.”

The slight widening of the two men’s eyes was all the reaction the Jedi was going to get. It was nonetheless extremely satisfying.

Before either of his interviewers could summon a response, Obi-Wan had opened the door and started for the turbolifts.

* * *

On the way to the lifts, he passed door after door, rooms he could only assume served a similar purpose to the one he and his two interviewers had occupied.  _ How many conversations are going on behind those doors right now?  _ he wondered.  _ And to what end? _

Whatever this was, as soon as he got back to his flat—not the Temple, not for a few days at least—he’d have to immediately contact Bail and warn him about this. While his friend may not have been the endgame here—and Obi-Wan had no reason to doubt the Force on that point—he was one of the pieces. That had to be taken care of, and soon.

As they had in his rendezvous with Mace Windu, his thoughts flickered back to that conversation with Padmé about Theed. About what she and Bail had done there.  _ At least both of them are off planet. And if there’s one thing Windu won’t do, it’s cooperate with an investigation started by Palpatine. _

The lift nearest him opened just as he emerged from the hallway. Obi-Wan watched it disgorge its contents—half a dozen soldiers dressed in the white armor that the Peacekeeping Corps had prototyped, that now clad the infantry of the Grand Army. There was a disquieting air of automata to the gleaming plastoid plates, to the black lenses on the helmets—it reminded Obi-Wan of the time a planet of droid manufacturers had given him a tour of one of their larger factories. Rows and rows of “eyes,” all staring in exactly the same manner . . .

Suppressing a tiny shudder of distaste, he nodded at the soldiers as they moved past each other.  _ Whatever you’re doing here, _ he thought as the last of them left his sight,  _ I do hope it doesn’t involve any of the subjects who are being interviewed. _

Moving quickly, he entered the lift and punched at the ground-floor button. At ten floors up, it wouldn’t be long til he was out of here and on his way home.  _ I’ll call Bail, then after a while I can contact Qlik and Luminara and see what they have to say about all this.  _ And after that—no, he couldn’t push things with Anakin by asking his opinion. Not when things were so close to possibly working o—

The back of his neck prickled with a warning, just before he heard the muted clack of boots against the turbolift floor.

Even without turning, he knew who it was. The half dozen soldiers he’d passed had decided to catch the same lift back downstairs.

“Excuse me, sir,” one of them said. The helmet rendered his voice flat and lifeless, speech made electronic signal. “If you would please come with us.”

Obi-Wan twitched his hand, and the turbolift doors slammed closed far faster than they should have.

As the lift began moving downward, he ducked.

The stun baton the nearest soldier had aimed for Obi-Wan’s head instead slammed into the transparisteel of the lift’s far wall, discharging in a rain of sparks. The Jedi slid to one side to avoid the baton’s continued downward arc, then seized the soldier by the wrist and  _ bent _ , with the Force as well as his grip.

As the soldier cried out and his grip slackened, Obi-Wan ripped the baton away and flailed wildly, catching another soldier on his helmet. The blow didn’t discharge through the plastoid but did seem to render the trooper flash-blind; at any rate, Obi-Wan couldn’t follow up with another strike, as he had to wrench himself backward and block with the baton to avoid  _ another _ strike from a third soldier.

_ Of all days,  _ he thought grimly as he stuck his leg out and swept another trooper’s ankle,  _ to leave my bloody lightsaber at home. _

In these close quarters, he wouldn’t get anywhere fast—it was only a matter of time before one of the half-dozen stun batons in play caught him through sheer coincidence as much as intent. He had to get out—

As he thought this, a whisper in the Force made him lift his left leg just in time to avoid one of the fallen troopers grazing his ankle with a baton.  _ All right, that does it, _ he thought, and sent a dart of mental energy at the lift’s control panel.

The doors wrenched themselves open and the car ground to a halt—not quite level with the closest opening in the shaft, unfortunately, only half of which was visible. Taking up the bottom half of the turbolift’s open doorway was a slab of duracrete wall.

He’d chance it. Deciding to risk one last use of the Force, Obi-Wan sent a wave radiating outward—not enough to cause any damage to the lift’s other occupants but enough to knock them back. In the second’s time this afforded him, he hurled himself at the duracrete wall and hauled himself upward.

Two officials who’d evidently just exited the other lift looked aghast at the sight of a bearded man crawling out of a turbolift onto the fifth floor. Obi-Wan, heaving himself over the lip and onto solid ground, readied a mental suggestion that would leave both of them sure the sight of him had only been a passing mirage—

And then four stun batons connected with his ankle at once.

Before he could feel himself tumble back to the turbolift floor with a sharp  _ thump _ , blackness overtook him.

* * *

_**JEDI ARCHIVES: THE HIDDEN KNIGHTS — OPERATING IN PUBLIC AS A JEDI** _

_ [text excerpted from an invitation to an optional instructional lesson at the Jedi Temple, dated the 5th of Saresh, 1149] _

Not every Jedi enjoys the freedom of an Outer Rim posting, where no one pays any attention to the lightsaber hanging from your belt and you can’t accidentally get followed to the Jedi Temple. For those of us who must operate as Jedi Knights within the Core Worlds of the Republic, a more subtle approach is needed. 

This seminar, presented by Knight Qui-Gon Jinn, will provide an overview of some essential techniques for Jedi Knights both old and new. Topics of interest include lightsaber concealment, choosing your mental suggestion targets wisely, and surreptitious Force techniques to get you out of a jam. 

Session begins at 18:00 in the Temple Courtyard.


	15. Dead Man's Switch (Part III: The Chancellor's Hand)

Another Sluissi body crumpled against the deck, and Anakin let out a great exhalation of relief. The serpentine aliens were heavier than they looked—six feet of pure muscle, a scaled coil of a tail making up the entirety of their body below the waist. They’d gone down quickly—Amina’s marksmanship had seen to that—but dragging the corpses to a place they wouldn’t be found had proved rather laborious. Especially when the pair constantly had to keep an eye out to make sure they weren’t spotted.

“I bet you miss the Peacekeeping Corps right about now,” Anakin huffed, poking a wall panel to shut the door behind him. They’d pulled the two dead Sluissi into a maintenance corridor—one that would eventually lead them to a place where they could knock out the warship’s repulsor coils. Unlike the stark, angular hallways of the upper decks they’d first traversed, the maintenance corridor was an organic, snaking hall of gentle curves and textured walls. Quicker to navigate, Anakin realized, if one were a Sluissi engineer. Efficiently moving two humans and a speeder bike through these halls would prove a bit more challenging. 

“That’s funny,” Amina said, rubbing her hands together as if to dust them off. “Things in the Peacekeeping Corps only ever got interesting once, and I didn’t even get to see it. Was stationed at the wrong post that night.” She shrugged. “Manik was there, though. You’d have to ask him for details.” 

“ _ Boat chases are only interesting if you don’t fall in the water, Amina, _ ” Manik’s voice crackled into their earpieces. “ _ You lose your excitement after that. _ ”

Smirking as he stepped over a body, Anakin moved past Amina, tugging on the handlebars of the speeder as he walked. It drifted above the ground, coasting gently with each tweak of the throttle. 

“Anyway,” Amina said, “I wouldn’t trade this for any day back on Naboo.” 

“It’s gotta be quite a change of pace,” Anakin replied, glancing over his shoulder—she walked behind him, explosives pack slung over one shoulder and blaster rifle over the other. “Palpatine hand-picked all of the  _ Arbiter’s  _ crew, right?” 

She nodded silently. 

He threw another look forward, then lowered his voice. “What was it like, getting that recruitment letter?” 

Amina paused, turning her helmeted head upward as if pondering the question. “It was everything I ever wanted.” Then, shifting her obscured gaze back to Anakin: “I met him before, you know.”

“Really?” 

“He was still provincial governor back then. He was the keynote speaker at some dinner for the Legislative Youth Program.” 

Anakin couldn’t keep himself from snorting—freezing in his tracks, he turned to glance at the armored ranger behind him. “You’re kidding. Legislative Youth—”

“I know, I know,” she interrupted before he could finish echoing her words, waving a dismissive hand. Her voice was laced with embarrassment and annoyance. “It was either that or the Junior Wine Club. I was just there to make friends, really.” 

“Whatever you say,” he said with a chuckle, turning to face forward again and goosing the speeder bike’s throttle. It lurched forward a little farther than he expected, nearly dragging him off his feet—behind him he could hear a modulated laugh escape Amina’s helmet.

The laugh quickly choked itself quiet when a faint vibration started in the ceiling above them—someone traveling the upper deck, reptilian body rumbling against the deck in one sinuous motion. Anakin squeezed his eyes shut and listened—it didn’t  _ sound _ like the alien was hesitating over them, but there was no way to be sure.

“We wait,” he said. For the next two minutes, they did just that.

After those two minutes, there was no way to be sure that they were alone— _ Not like there used to be _ , his brain nagged at him—but they wouldn’t do themselves any good staying still. “Let’s go,” Anakin hissed, pointing forward.

Amina raised her hand in acknowledgment. As they started forward again, she whispered, “Like I was saying, Palpatine spoke at this dinner event, and then spent a few minutes talking one-on-one with everyone afterwards. He was . . . nice. I really felt like he knew me, even though we’d just met.”

“How do you get from legislative youth dinners to the Peacekeeping Corps, though?” Anakin asked without looking back at her. 

“Oh, easy. After university I joined the queen’s royal guard.” 

_ Royal guard,  _ Anakin thought, Amina’s words reverberating in his head.  _ Like Cody. And the Sawsharks. And Padmé.  _

_ And Obi-Wan.  _

“Enrollment went way up when the war started,” Amina continued, yanking his thoughts back into the present. “That first battle hit us different out in the Mid Rim, I think. There was this feeling that the Confederacy was coming for Naboo next. That we had to be ready to protect our own.” 

Anakin nodded slowly, but said nothing.  _ The Mid Rim.  _ He found his eyes wandering to the speeder bike beside him, then to the rippling, cavern-like corridor walls that surrounded them both. 

“Most of the first wave of Peacekeeping Corps troops was pulled from the queen’s guard, and of course we all ended up in the Grand Army. It was amazing, actually—when the chancellor’s letter arrived inviting me to join the  _ Arbiter’s  _ crew, to work for you, he still remembered who I was, all the way back from the Legislative Youth Program.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Anakin said. “That’s just the kind of man he is.” 

“Yeah,” Amina said—the word left her helmet in a hushed hiss of static. “I think he sees things in people.” 

Anakin heard her words, but he didn’t process their meaning—he was too busy staring down the winding length of maintenance corridor that lay before them both. An acute uneasiness scratched at the back of his skull—something was wrong, very wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

_ Stretch out with your feelings,  _ he heard a voice say—that Core accent, so polished, so obnoxiously perfect and  _ right  _ all the damn time—

He swatted the voice aside. Now was not the time. He didn’t need the Force. Intuition and luck had gotten him this far. 

“Are you all right, sir?” 

“Huh?” he asked, whirling to face Amina—she’d once again managed to snap him out of a reverie. 

“You have your hand on your holster. Expecting something to jump out at us?” 

Anakin glanced down at his hand—he hadn’t realized his fingers were resting against the grip of his blaster. Pulling them back, he nodded slowly, glancing from side to side. “We should have run into more opposition by now.” 

Amina shrugged. “The ship’s almost finished, maybe there aren’t many construction crew members left working on it.”   
“Not crew,” Anakin said. “Security. Guards. Where the hell are they? I’ve just got a bad feeling about this. It’s too quiet for being this deep into enemy territory.” 

“Well, they don’t know we made it this far, remember?” she replied. “Besides, I think you can relax. We’re here.” 

He hadn’t noticed it, but she was right. To an untrained eye, the unassuming cluster of wires and conduits looked no different from anything else on the engineering deck of any other warship. Anakin Skywalker’s eye was anything but untrained. 

The conduits, several centimeter thick pipes that held bundles of electrical wire, supplied power to the warship’s repulsor coils. Slow, steady trickles of power that came from a set of generators with several layers of redundancy. If one died, the next would kick in, each with enough backup power to keep the ship aloft in a standard gravity environment for several days. 

Cut off the conduits, however, and the whole system would fail. Not for long, of course. There were backup power routes, too—if Sluissi ships were anything like the ones the Republic made at Kuat or Fondor or Rendili, there would be more than one conduit meant to supply power. But rerouting the load along a different line took more time than booting up a generator. Precious time, time where gravity would take hold and tear the ship out of the air. 

His earpiece gave a crackle, and Manik’s voice joined them once more. “ _ Sir, we’ve arrived. Going to start planting charges now—we’ll blow ours once we’re clear, then you blow yours and bring the  _ Arbiter _ to get us out of here. _ ”

A smile crossed Anakin’s face, and he turned to Amina. “Do your thing.” Stepping back, he leaned against the speeder bike and watched her go to work. 

* * *

“That speeder drop maneuver,” Amina asked, shaking her head as she went about her work. “I never thought I’d get to see anything like it in person. How did you know the repulsorgrip would stick to the canyon wall?” 

Anakin couldn’t help but let loose a nervous laugh. He was perched atop the floating speeder bike in the middle of the maintenance corridor, looking on as Amina mounted explosives to the repulsor power conduits. The corridor moved in pulses and waves, flowing in gentle curves as though nature had constructed it. “I didn’t. I just . . . went for it.” 

“Amazing,” he heard Amina mutter through her helmet. “You do something like that once, I suppose you might as well try it again.” 

“Speeder bikes in caves,” Anakin muttered to himself. Then, louder: “Wait, what?” 

“You mean Had Abbadon, right?” she asked as she continued to wire explosives together along the electrical conduit. 

He shook his head in disbelief. “How do you know about that?” 

Amina paused to glance back at him, then reached back into her pack for the next component. “It was in your file.” 

“My  _ file? _ ” 

Amina shrugged. “The chancellor gave you dossiers on all of us, right? We got one on you. I don’t know if everyone else read it, but I like to know who I’m working for.” 

“Hm,” Anakin hummed through clenched lips, picturing all the  _ other _ things that had happened in those caves. That had happened in the years since. “I’m almost afraid to ask: what else was in it?” 

Before she could answer, Thorn’s voice suddenly shot through their earpieces. “ _ We’re blown, I repeat, we’re bl— _ ”

The warning was cut off with a gurgle.

At the same instant, a scaly tendril of pure muscle wrapped itself around Anakin’s neck.

He froze as he felt the snake-like appendage twist and squeeze his throat, and though he made a great effort to gasp for air, none came. Even as he pulled, his attention was pulled in several directions at once.

To his neck, and the Sluissi tail wrapped around it—could he wedge his mechanical hand between his flesh and his assailant’s, wrenching himself free of the serpent’s grasp? To the blaster on his hip—was his best option to go for his gun? To Amina—though his vision was fluttering toward darkness as the scaly noose around his neck began to tighten, he could see the ranger had been attacked just as he had. She was wrestling on the ground with another slithering alien, and she was losing. 

The tail tightened further around his throat, forcing what little air remained in him out through his mouth.  _ Gun it is,  _ he thought—but before his mechanical appendage could reach the blaster, his opponent sealed it in an iron grip. 

The Sluissi’s arm looked somewhat like a lizard’s—long, bony, with a nimble hand at its end. Though Anakin put all his natural muscle and every ounce of servomotor strength into twisting his wrist away, he couldn’t reach his weapon—the muscle beneath the scales had to be  _ immense _ . The mechanical hand strained, audibly creaking, but the gap between it and the gun was too great. 

Anakin knew this, and yet he kept pulling even as the dull grey of unconsciousness started creeping into the edges of his vision. He had to keep the Sluissi’s attention for just a few—more—seconds— 

Metal hand serving as the diversion, the bait, Anakin’s flesh hand crept toward the speeder bike’s throttle. One finger danced along it. Then two. Then a full grip. 

He twisted, and the speeder bike shot down the hall. 

The motion caught him off guard as much as it seemed to startle the Sluissi; the alien lurched its weight backward in an apparent attempt to throw them both off the speeder bike. 

It was precisely what Anakin had hoped would happen. The motion sent the speeder bike careening sideways until it slammed against the wall—or rather, slammed Anakin’s Sluissi assailant against the wall. The sudden and forceful impact made the alien lessen its grip on Anakin’s neck and arm, if only for a moment—but a moment was all he needed. 

His mechanical hand free, it shot down toward the blaster pistol set against his hip and drew. In a single motion he brought the gun up behind his head and fired three shots into the Sluissi’s skull. 

The holes in the alien’s head were still smoking as it dropped to the floor, but Anakin didn’t pay it any mind. There was only one thought in his head, a single word. A name.

_ Amina.  _

He tried to repeat it aloud, but couldn’t find his voice. Inhaling a sharp and raspy breath, he sprinted down the corridor toward where the ranger was tangling with her own serpentine attacker. Human and Sluissi writhed about on the ground in a violent dance, and Anakin raised his blaster in preparation to shoot the alien. 

Then he saw it. The dead man’s switch. 

The lightbox on Amina’s chest, formerly green, now pulsed yellow as the Sluissi choked the life out of her. Anakin’s hands lost all semblance of steadiness as he tried to find his mark. Let the Sluissi choke Amina, and they’d all blow up. Try to shoot the Sluissi, miss, and hit Amina . . . and they’d all blow up. 

The light turned orange, and though he couldn’t see her face, Anakin knew by the way Amina’s body slumped that she was losing her grip on consciousness. It was why it took him precious seconds to notice the strangely distinct rhythm of her thumping her open palm against the deck. Was it a cry for help? A plea for the Sluissi to spare her? 

Then it clicked with him. Adjusting his grip on the blaster in his hand, Anakin knelt down and slid the gun along the deck. 

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Just as Amina’s hand thumped down again, the pistol slid beneath it. Snatching the weapon off the floor, the ranger reached up and planted a single shot beneath the Sluissi’s scaly chin. 

Going limp with death, the alien relaxed its grip on Amina’s neck. She dropped the blaster to the deck and tore her helmet from her head, taking in desperate gulps of air. Anakin ran to her, reaching down and helping her to her feet. A brief glance down revealed the lightbox on her chest—the dead man’s switch—had returned to a steady glow of green. 

“Bomb,” Amina gasped between deep breaths—her voice was raspy, broken. “The bomb.” She pointed to the device on the front of her armor. 

“I know,” Anakin said with a nod. “We could have been vaporized.” 

“Not ours,” she said, choking on her words. “The other one.” 

The realization slammed into him like a cargo truck. 

“Thorm and Manik,” he said, wincing through the words—talking was going to hurt for a while. “Maybe we can make it to them before—”

The sound of a distant explosion cut him short. Then, even louder, came the sound of one kilometer’s worth of metal slamming into another. Anakin felt the sound in his teeth; the horrible grinding coming from outside the hull of the warship tickled his ear canals.  _ The other stack is collapsing,  _ he thought. 

Thorm and Manik’s bomb had gone off. 

Grabbing Amina by the wrist, Anakin hauled her toward the speeder bike. “We’ve got to go!” 

“Wait,” she said, though she did not pull away from him. “I wasn’t done rigging the bomb.” 

“Will it blow up when we hit the detonator?” Anakin asked, stepping over the Sluissi corpse on the floor and throwing himself onto the speeder bike. 

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then you’re done. Let’s move!” 

* * *

Recycled air rushed past Anakin as the speeder bike shot down the Sluissi warship’s central cargo corridor. Boxes of foodstuffs and ship parts and munitions lined the walls, while confused engineers looked on as two humans on a speeder bike flew by.  _ Lucky they didn’t build a lot of right angles into this place,  _ he thought as they narrowly avoided running one of the bystanders into the deck.  _ If they had we’d be paste on a wall. _

“Where were all these guys before?” he wondered aloud. 

Amina ignored the question. She sat behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her grip just loose enough to fit a remote detonator. “We’re at minimum safe distance!” she shouted in his ear.

He nodded. “Okay, no time to wait. Trigger it.”

She barked an affirmative, and the world around him turned to chaos. 

Glancing over his shoulder just in time, Anakin watched as fire sprouted from the wall several meters behind them. He could feel the heat radiating from the blast; seconds later, the shockwave of sound thumped against the back of the bike. 

“Nicely done, Ranger,” he offered Amina before turning to face forward and kicking the bike into full gear. “Captain’s waiting for that second explosion to take off; our ride out of here should be meeting us up at the nose of the ship.” 

_ Well,  _ he thought, the dull  _ thump _ of a distant explosion playing in his memory.  _ Meeting  _ half _ of us there. _

He felt Amina shake her head behind him. “I just hope it works,” she said. “I didn’t get all the charges placed right where I wanted them.” 

“So?”

“It’s probably fine. The whole repulsor coil network should fail in just a moment.” 

In retrospect, Anakin thought he should have seen it coming. Nothing had gone right up to this point. Why should it have started now?   
If the repulsor coils had failed as he expected them to, the entire ship would have fallen straight down, collapsing on top of its nearest neighbor in the stack in an even, ordered fashion—at least as ordered as a ship crash could be. 

Instead, Anakin felt  _ forward _ become  _ up _ as the back half of the vessel lurched downward and the capital ship’s bow began to rise into the air. 

“Oh  _ gods,”  _ he muttered. “This is bad.” 

“What’s wrong?” Amina asked, tightening her grip on Anakin’s waist as gravity began to tug her toward the back of the bike. “You drove down a wall to get here, why not drive up one to escape?” 

“I don’t think it works that way,” he answered through gritted teeth, willing the bike to move faster as the incline of the ship continued to pitch. The repulsorgrip will hold, sure, but we’ll just slide down unless there’s something to propel us upward. And I’m not sure this engine will cut it.” 

“Better hurry, then.” 

_ No kidding,  _ he thought. But it was easier said than done, and the nose of the ship pitching forward meant they were getting out even slower than he would have liked. By the time they made it to the outside of the hull, its descent would have taken it even further down than they already were.

Anakin glanced sideways to check the wall of the cargo corridor—it was lined with numbers meant to mark the distance from one end of the ship to another. They were over halfway to the nose. Whether that was enough progress, he had no idea. The floor was now pitched at a forty-five degree angle; the speeder bike engine whined in protest as he pushed it to climb the metal mountain before it. 

Then an even more horrid sound echoed throughout the ship. It was the whine of an upset speeder bike engine multiplied a thousand times, and accompanying it was a twisting feeling in Anakin’s stomach—and a distinct sense that the wall was about to become the new floor. 

The crashing capital ship was rolling onto its side. 

_ You are  _ not _ going to get everyone killed here,  _ he thought furiously to himself.  _ Two is bad enough, you and Amina are getting out of here  _ now.

He tugged on the throttle, but it didn’t move—the bike was going as fast as it would ever go. He shifted his weight forward, begging the universe to grant the speeder bike just an ounce more speed. 

Their exit was in sight now—the cargo hatch that made up the forward end of the corridor. It sat wide open, its gaping maw home to all manner of crates and cargo haulers—most of which were still strapped down to the surface formerly known as the floor. Anakin knew he couldn’t afford to slow the bike; they had no time left to lose. The ship was falling apart now, shears in the metal snaking their way through the walls. But driving full speed felt crazy.

And there was a bigger problem. The space through the hatch was empty. The  _ Arbiter  _ was nowhere to be found. When he and Amina reached the exit, they would shoot off into the abyss and end up dead. 

Anakin narrowed his eyes and stayed fully on the throttle. It was now or never. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. 

And sailed out into the open. 

The bike went blissfully quiet for a moment as he loosed his iron grip on the throttle. The chilled night air sent hundreds of goosebumps across his skin as it whipped past his face. It was, in a way, almost peaceful. He looked up—beyond the rising walls of the canyon, he could see the stars. Reality hung in a state of stillness as Anakin stared upward. 

Then it came roaring back to life as a blur of shadow shot toward them. 

In an instant he engaged the speeder bike’s airbrakes; Anakin felt them pass through the envelope of air at the precipice of the  _ Arbiter’s  _ hangar. Harsh artificial lighting seared his eyes as the night sky was replaced with the interior of a Republic strike corvette. 

Smoke rose in curls from the speeder bike’s engine as Anakin dismounted the vehicle. He didn’t stop to check on Amina, didn’t pause to greet the rest of the crew. He simply walked to the edge of the hangar opening and, basking in the light cast by its rectangular border, looked down into the canyon on Sluis Van as a dozen capital ships crumbled like a sandcastle in a storm.

The adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream spiked into something else as he watched prow plow into prow like a blade shearing through cloth. The shriek of metal on metal was audible all the way up here, miles of the stuff tearing itself apart. An entire fleet closing in on itself, its own weight dragging it into an abyss.

The shipyard that had crafted the  _ Lancer _ station. That had been preparing to go head to head with the Republic fleet with a flotilla of capital ships. Reduced to twisted metal at the bottom of a canyon.

Anakin remembered the sight of city platforms falling to crush depth, sent there by the weapon this place had prototyped. Watching the former heart of the CIS’s navy topple now, helpless to save itself . . .

In that moment, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Sir!” a harsh voice barked.

Whirling around, Anakin saw the medic—Weston—half-running toward him and Amina, brandishing a diagnostic tool. “Are you both all right?”

“We’re fine,” Anakin replied, realizing in a rush that it was true—in fact, he was better than fine. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin before he could stop it. This was the best he’d felt in years.  _ You did it you did it you gods-damned DID it— _

“And Thorm? Manik?”

The names thudded him back to reality, endorphins curdling into something sour. Weston asked as if he already knew—and, of course, he did, Anakin realized. The ship would have registered the dead man’s switches triggering. They just wanted official confirmation.

Amina spoke softly. “They didn’t make it.”

There was a moment where nothing happened—scout, medic, and commander just stood there, swaying back and forth with the ship’s motion. Then Weston nodded, said, “Right then,” and saluted.

Anakin just stood there like an idiot for a moment. Then he wrenched his mechanical hand upright to return the gesture, just before Weston turned and headed back inside.

“You should follow him, sir,” Amina told him, though it seemed she wasn’t looking at him but  _ past _ him to the newly made graveyard below. “You must have done a number on your arms, he can see to that.”

She was right, Anakin knew. But he wasn’t yet feeling any pain. His body was still on the high of survival, of luck, of defying the odds. The names flashed through his mind again—Manik, Thorm—but the only picture he had of them was their helmets. Nothing more to mourn.

That deep, physical sense of loss that came with the death of someone you cared about was nowhere. Everywhere but in his mind, Anakin Skywalker still felt great.

And he didn’t know how to stop it.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: REPULSORGRIP** _

The repulsorgrip is a specialized component found on land-based hovering vehicles. It works in tandem with the repulsorlift to provide traction as vehicles float above the ground, “grabbing” the same surface that the repulsorlift pushes against. Without a repulsorgrip, hovering vehicles would drift about as though they were on a low friction surface. Repulsorgrips are not typically a part of the repulsorlift coil array found in airspeeers or starships. 

The most standard repulsorgrips are designed to go a vehicle’s entire lifespan without being adjusted. However, for specialized applications, “tuning” a repulsorgrip is a necessity. Racing landspeeders feature repulsorgrips that can be adjusted on the fly to allow for “drifting,” and repulsorgrips also require adjustment before being used over water, mud, or ice. 


	16. One They Fear (Part III: The Chancellor's Hand)

Obi-Wan’s entire body was a single ache, starting in a hot pulse at his left ankle and working its way up in coiled vines of soreness til it reached his softly pounding head. Though he could feel himself waking up, he kept his eyes squeezed shut, uncertain of what being exposed to light would do to them. Even without his sight, he could sense that he was not, as he might have expected, sprawled on a bunk in a holding cell. In fact, he seemed to be sitting in a rather comfortable chair.

“General?” said a distant voice. Begrudgingly, Obi-Wan opened his eyes.

He sat in an office the same shade of beige the interview room had been, but the overall effect was far more welcoming. Light shone in through a window to the left, though the room’s other occupant had taken care to polarize the view; the furniture was not plastic but leather, in the case of the Jedi’s chair, and what appeared to be real wood, in the case of the desk in front of him. Atop the desk was a pitcher of water and an already-full glass; careful not to spill any, Obi-Wan reached forward and took a lengthy sip, praying the liquid would do something to reduce his headache.

That attended to, he raised his eyes to look at the man across from him. “Where am I?” he asked.

This new face was the same age as Vargot’s, but where that man had been fleshy and square, this one was thin to the point of gauntness, his angular face and the sharp point of his receding hairline only emphasizing the contrast. His eyes, watery blue, seemed to follow the glass as Obi-Wan returned it to his desk; then, smiling, he returned to his guest. “You’re in the office of the director—myself, that is. I thought it best that you be in friendlier surroundings when you came to.” At that the polite smile slid from his face. “General Kenobi, I apologize profusely on behalf of the Office. My two men downstairs had no right to detain you against your will, nor did their subordinates any right to assault you. They will be disciplined, I assure you.”

Words meant to impart an apology, but the director didn’t deign to mean them—Obi-Wan sensed a profound  _ irritation _ bristling beneath the polite exterior, not at the assault itself but at the dent it had made in his schedule. Not that the Jedi needed his senses to form this impression—the clipped tone in which the other man spoke was evidence enough.

Too weary and sore to concentrate on any further mental probing, Obi-Wan didn’t pursue the feeling—the director’s feelings toward his derailed itinerary were the absolute least of his worries. “I do hope my experience wasn’t representative of others’ interviews,” he replied, the jab blunted by another hasty sip of water as the dryness in his throat seized.

The director smiled again and nodded, the movement carrying an unsettling resemblance to a bird of prey dipping its head. “In the wake of the attack, our recruits have been overzealous in venting their frustrations. As I said, they will be dealt with. Though,” he continued, sudden good cheer heightening his voice, “I will admit their conduct has not been entirely without benefit to me. I’ve wanted to meet you, you see.” Extending a hand whose fingers seemed just too long, he said, “Wilhuff Tarkin, at your service.”

Gripping and shaking, Obi-Wan felt his wariness grow—entirely too many people today had been personally interested in him for his liking. “Wanted to meet me?”

“General, false modesty does not befit you,” Tarkin replied, releasing the Jedi and pouring his own glass of water. “I have a keen interest in heroes.”

An opening, room for Obi-Wan to be politely self-deprecating or to go for a harsher jab— _ Your people downstairs don’t seem to think I’m particularly heroic. _ He didn’t take it. Rather, he sipped again at his glass to buy some time, willing the pulse at his temples to decrease. When Tarkin simply let the silence hang, Obi-Wan gestured at the window. “Quite the view you have.”

Indeed it was—though it was not of Capitol Plaza. Instead, Tarkin’s office faced outward, opening to Coruscant beyond—skyscrapers and plumes of smoke rose as the plaza’s carefully maintained precision gave way to the haphazard layers of construction that made up the majority of the planet. The sun was already beginning to set—the buildings rose against a canvas of blue shading toward purple, the dimness deepend by the polarized transparisteel.

Tarkin nodded. “There are those who’ve asked me why I didn’t take an office pointed toward the Senate dome. I prefer to have my eyes on the work I’ve yet to do.”

“And that work is?”

The prosecutor raised his eyebrows in indulgent amusement. “In my line of business, I’m used to asking the questions, General.”

Obi-Wan pressed his fingers hard against each other beneath the desk. “I was under the impression the interview was over.”

Tarkin gave a sniff that might have been a laugh. “The work, General, that all citizens share. Bringing perfect order to this Republic.” He nodded toward the view. “Look at them. The buildings, the districts. Slapdash, inefficient, milling about with all sorts of incompatible inhabitants and ways of life. A mere encumbrance at the best of times—but these are not at all the best of times, are they?”

It wasn’t rhetorical. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Rogue elements, General Kenobi,” said Tarkin. He jabbed at a button beneath the desk; a moment later, the polarizer dimmed entirely, leaving the two of them in a space that felt far more enclosed than it had a few moments ago. “Parting gifts from our warlord friends. You’ve heard rumors, I’m sure—clone troops, yes, but mercenaries and criminals too, left beneath the planetary shield to wreak havoc from within.”

“I was under the impression that rumor is all they were. Fearmongering.”

“That is what this office is attempting to uncover, among other matters.” Tarkin steepled his fingers in a perfect triangle. “But if I may confide in you, General, it is my belief that whether or not these saboteurs are rumors, we must proceed as if they exist. A society can only be free when it is free from every contingency, wouldn’t you agree?”

_ Not remotely.  _ Aloud: “Your dedication is admirable.”

“No more than yours, of course. It seems even retirement from the armed forces has not stopped you from coming to the aid of those in need.”

Too tired and frustrated to care if rudeness got him into further trouble, Obi-Wan shook his head. “I already told your men downstairs, Mr. Tarkin, that I serve on a strict consulting basis—”

“Oh, I’m not referring to your having the ear of Bail Organa. I’m referring to your activities during the battle.”

Too late, Obi-Wan realized he’d been so busy trying not to walk back into the trap of House Organa that he hadn’t even considered the trap Tarkin had just sprung.

In the instant he grasped exactly what was going on, he was already responding—hesitation would at this point be fatal. “Mr. Tarkin,” he said, adding a chuckle whose genuine sound was both a surprise and relief, “I’m afraid I don’t see what’s so heroic about my staying huddled inside.”

“As I said before, General Kenobi, false modesty does not befit you.” Tarkin again resembled nothing so much as a raptor—only raptors did not smile, did not take relish in their hunt. “Word travels—not always loudly and not always far, but enough. You were seen on . . .” He paused and tapped at a datapad, the pretense of calling up the figure rather spoiled by the way he continued to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes. “Ah, two separate occasions helping citizens out of collapsing structures left behind by street-to-street combat. It seems your hood was not a match for Republic gunship floodlights.”

So there it was. The Office of Special Investigations knew something no one at the Temple knew—not Master Drallig, not Qlik. Obi-Wan Kenobi had broken ranks.

He was almost certain he hadn’t been the only Jedi to imitate Qui-Gon when the hastily assembled council had placed the Temple on lockdown—Mace Windu didn’t seem the type to sit still when he was told, and while he was an extreme example there were plenty of others who’d wanted to go out and help. Too regularly, and Obi-Wan would have gotten caught—he’d slipped out a handful of times over the course of the siege, taking care not to do so by any fixed schedule.

It had been so little—helping people escape from collapsing buildings, subtly redirecting debris with waves of Force power before it blocked off the routes civilians were using to escape. Offering what morale boosts he could through mental suggestion. As the siege had wound on and Drallig kept a tighter and tighter watch, he’d stopped going out altogether—he’d spent the time since wishing he’d done more, had wielded his lightsaber against the invaders head-on.

In the present, he found himself wildly grateful he had never used it in front of witnesses.

Putting on his best confused frown, he paused for just the right span of time before shaking his head. “You think better of me than I deserve, Mr. Tarkin. People see things they want to see when they’re in the midst of danger—rescuers become angels, famous heroes. I’ve seen it before with soldiers; I can only imagine what civilians could be frightened into seeing.”

A furrow opened up along the director’s forehead, a frown that didn’t quite reach his eyes—Obi-Wan could still see their gleam of enjoyment. “You’ll forgive me, General, for doubting you, of course—it’s just that these images seem quite definitive.”

He turned the datapad, and Obi-Wan saw a face looking back at him. It was hooded, half in shadow, in soft focus—but it was unmistakably his own.

As his jaw tightened, the Jedi tried to force it back open, to say something, but Tarkin had already leapt in to fill the gap. “Strange things were reported happening in the area just before this. Clones being blown away as if by magic. Loads of debris lifted that no single being could possibly have hoped to move. That sort of story popped up on  _ several _ occasions during the attack, in fact. At any rate, whatever his connection to those events, shortly after this particular image was captured, the subject departed on foot. Our best guess is that he was headed for the Works.”

_ Not the Classical District, they’ve missed that much,  _ he thought with silent gratitude for small favors. Almost immediately, he asked himself,  _ But then, this man has no reason to tell you the truth about what their best guess  _ really _ was, does he? _

“You know, Mr. Tarkin,” he said, turning the datapad back toward its owner, “I’m afraid I already told your people downstairs that I will not answer irrelevant questions. I hope you don’t find me rude, but I really must ask to go.”

The ease with which the prosecutor nodded in assent twisted at Obi-Wan’s gut. He had no reason to keep the Jedi further.

He’d found out what he wanted to know.

“I’d be happy to get you a private lift home, in recompense for my men’s behavior—ahh, perhaps not,” said Tarkin, smirking at the alarm that must have flitted through the Jedi’s eyes. “An escort to the nearest public transit, then.

“Again, General, I must say it has been an  _ honor _ meeting you in person.”

* * *

If the two uniformed humans Tarkin had sent as Obi-Wan’s escort were supposed to reassure him simply by dint of their lack of white plastoid armor, it wasn’t working. The pair bracketed him on either side, just far away enough that he wouldn’t feel encroached upon without ever actually falling out of step with him. Reaching out to plumb their minds, he caught watchfulness, unity of purpose, and very little else.

The beginnings of sunset had thrown Capitol Plaza into a land of contrasts; the light shone sharp against the white stone as it died, but so too did it throw shadows of solid black. In the distance, the construction crews that milled about the Senate dome were mere silhouettes. Obi-Wan found himself glancing from shadow to shadow, waiting for something to jump out—Vargot and Ponce Held, a cluster of plastoid-armored troops, Tarkin with his predator’s eyes.

_ They know I’m a Jedi. _

The conviction passed through his head again and again, simple, unprovable, undeniable. It explained everything—the inquiries into his background. The repeated hints that his relationship with Bail had been untoward. The questions as to his whereabouts during the siege. The choice details of sightings made to sound more impossible than they were.

But why him? Tarkin had made reference to other sightings, presumably of other Jedi.

_ Other Jedi aren’t military heroes. Other Jedi don’t have direct lines to politicians. _

_ Other Jedi aren’t Anakin’s best friend. _

The latter crossed unbidden into his mind before he could prevent it. Instinctively, before he could even weigh the possibility, Obi-Wan flung it aside.  _ He wouldn’t do that to you. You know him too well to consider that. And besides, he was surprised when you told him this inquiry even existed. He wouldn’t have lied. _

_ (Would he?) _

“General Kenobi? Are you all right?”

He’d stopped, he’d realized—he and his two escorts were simply standing still, all three enveloped by the shadow a statue cast across the pavement. Taking a quick breath, the Jedi shook his head and started forward without looking at either of the men flanking him.

The train station, when they arrived, was quieter than the last time he’d been through the area, but “quiet” on Coruscant still meant it was milling with people. Above the din of conversation, Obi-Wan turned to his companions and said, “Thank you for the escort. Have a good evening.” Before either could reply, he’d turned around and started up the stairway into the building proper.

They still, he knew, were just behind him.

That, of course, was the  _ real _ reason Tarkin had sent two unmasked men. Impossible for one to  _ not _ know one was being followed if the tail was two people in gleaming white armor. But in Capitol Plaza, which was full of government officials, this pair could blend right in.

Assuming their target hadn’t expected to be followed. Obi-Wan very much had.

Bolting for the nearest turnstile was his first instinct, one he had no intention of following—flee that obviously and it would be enough of a pretext to bring him in. He had to lose them as subtly as possible, and that meant letting them tail him for at least one train. That train would have to be one that led as far from the Temple as possible.

A short-range transit, then. Not outward to the rest of Coruscant, but deeper into the Capitol district.

As he passed through the turnstile, his train pass chiming faintly, he looked back in the direction of his pursuers. Not physically—there’d be no way to do that without their noticing—but with his Force-enhanced perceptions, painting the space behind him in broad sensory brushstrokes. He picked out the familiar energy the two carried and held it, bringing it into sharper focus—about ten meters behind him, moving at a steady pace.

For a moment, he second-guessed himself—he could still attempt to turn them back before they passed through the turnstile, send a mental suggestion that they report back to Tarkin early. But his suggestions worked only on the weak-minded, and if these two weren’t weak—well, they’d probably feel suspicious about hearing voices in their heads. Clenching a silent fist, Obi-Wan felt them cross past the barrier, eyes still on him.

Movement caught his attention up above—holoscreens displaying the latest of Palpatine’s public service announcements, this one a reminder to support the new Grand Army in its efforts against border incursions by the shards of the CIS. The messages were being broadcast all over Coruscant, but seeing them here, now, seemed like an ill omen.

The train wasn’t due for another five minutes. As Obi-Wan took his position on the platform, and felt his pursuers do the same just out of sight, he squeezed his eyes shut. He kept a single strand of his perceptions focused on the two men, but everything else withdrew. The bustle of fellow commuters, the distant chugs echoing through the train tunnel, Palpatine’s solemn tones filtered through a slight electronic crackle—all faded as the Force washed over him. He breathed slowly, easily, and willed himself to let go of apprehension.

Five minutes later, as the train pulled into position, he crossed back over to the real world.

Before the doors in front of him had fully whooshed open he was moving forward, delicately stepping around a gaggle of Bothan staffers and sliding into the car. As he gripped the warm, slightly sticky metal of a support pole, its tangibility grounding him firmly in the present, for the first time he risked an actual look at his tail, just long enough to confirm they’d entered the far end of his car. Glancing quickly away, he faked an intense interest in the glowing map of this sector’s train network, its constellations of blue dots and the gently pulsing routes between them flickering in time with the tube lights that illuminated the car.

With a low rumble of complaint, the train started forward. Once again, Obi-Wan called upon the Force, but this time rather than letting it obscure the outside world he heightened his awareness of his surroundings.

His tail had their eyes fixed on him, watching him stare into the map’s oscillating glow. As precisely as he could with the swarm of thoughts all around them, Obi-Wan tightened his perceptions and  _ pushed _ , hoping to penetrate into their minds.

It was like looking for individual pieces of driftwood amid ocean swells; the waves of the passengers’ mental energy rose and fell more quickly than an ordinary mind would be able to track, impressions and emotions and coherent thoughts all melded together into an ever-moving body of cognition. The Jedi waited on the Force to sift through the detritus and point him in the right direction; for a long while there was nothing, just the white noise of every life within the train.

Then a piece of wreckage began to glow against the current. And another, and another.

His own name was one of them.  _ Custody _ another. He caught a flash of something that made his brow furrow— _ Snowblind _ —before it vanished again underneath the tides of thought.

What he’d gleaned was enough. At the next stop, he’d have to move.

The  _ whoosh _ of the gravtrack beneath the train grew more forceful as they began to glide to a halt. In front of them, the station loomed—this one was far larger than the outpost station where Tarkin’s men had dropped Obi-Wan. The white stone maw swallowed up the car, whose internal lights glowed brighter to compensate.

After a few moments of darkness, they pulled alongside the platform. With a hiss of rushing air, the doors swept open.

Obi-Wan stepped forward and, at the same time, flicked  _ very _ delicately at a Whipid standing near his tail. Not a strong Force push, not even a tug, just a nudge to the alien’s balance at precisely the wrong time. It stumbled, barked its shin against a seat, and gave a roar of pain, hopping on one foot and almost tripping over—directly in front of the Jedi’s two friends.

The distraction lasted for only a few seconds. He’d have to hope it would be enough. There was no way for him to look back and see if it had worked.

Stairs passed in a blur, then the turnstile—rather than exit the station, however, Obi-Wan ducked into a bathroom and hurriedly enclosed himself inside a stall. He waited there for ten minutes, keeping his senses pressed against the outer door in case he was followed in. Mercifully, he wasn’t.

Still, he couldn’t leave. Not with this being his last recorded location. He’d have to go back down, take one more train, make sure he’d lost his company.

Then he’d head elsewhere. The Temple wasn’t an option—neither was his apartment, not if he risked being watched on his way back.  _ Especially _ not when he wasn’t the only person who knew where it was.

Of course, there  _ was _ the matter of his lightsaber being there . . .

_ Too late for that now. Get out of the capitol, go to ground, wait. _

_ And then figure out what the hell is going on. _

* * *

He traveled the rest of the night.

* * *

“Ah, Anakin! Come in, sit down, have a drink. I believe congratulations are in order.” 

As the chancellor spoke, Anakin moved almost mechanically from the door of the Executive Office to the chair before Palpatine’s desk. He lowered himself into it, careful not to disturb the glass of wine that sat on one arm of the furniture—or to eye it with the disdain he couldn’t help but feel. 

“You  _ did  _ read the report I filed, right?” he asked. He looked not at the chancellor as he spoke, but beyond him—through the panorama window to the city beyond. Midday sun hung over Coruscant, something his body didn’t know what to do with. They’d fled Sluis Van under the cover of night and, after several dummy jumps to shake pursuers, had made way straight for Coruscant. 

He hadn’t slept the whole trip. He didn’t know what time he thought it was. He didn’t care. 

“Of course I did,” Palpatine replied—the look on the man’s face indicated genuine confusion. “The operation was a resounding success.” 

“I got two people killed,” Anakin said—pausing, he glanced over at the wine glass and plucked it from its place on the armrest. “Had a couple more close calls, too. I could’ve lost  _ half  _ my squad. What exactly is successful about that?” Raising the glass to his lips, he downed half of it in one gulp. 

“The twelve capital ships you destroyed,” Palpatine replied, placing his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers. “That’s a dozen warships Sluis Van can’t use against us, or sell to someone else who will. Do you know how many people we would have lost if we tried to destroy a dozen Sluissi ships through conventional warfare?”

Yes, he knew. And he knew exactly how  _ successful _ he’d felt as he’d watched those warships crumble. That was the  _ problem.  _ But of course he couldn’t say that.

Instead, he snapped, “So two dead people is fine, because it could have been worse?”

Palpatine’s eyes grew wide for the briefest of moments; then, inhaling deeply through his nose, the chancellor shook his head. “You know that isn’t what I mean. Listen, Anakin. The chaos you created on Sluis Van has presented us with an incredible opportunity. The fleet that pursued you out of the system was meant to be the first line of defense against a full-scale attack. We sent a strike fleet in, and now control the space above the planet.

“Plans are in motion to capture the shipyard’s new Archon. By the end of the week, we could hold the system. That happened because of  _ you _ .” A satisfied smile crossed Palpatine’s face, and he leaned back slightly in his chair. 

Anakin rocked his mechanical hand back and forth. Mesmerized by the swirling wine, he stared into the burgundy pool as he spoke.  _ He’s right, you know,  _ that voice that would scrape at the back of his mind from time to time told him.  _ You pulled it off when no one else could have. Speeders in caves. _

“I had no plan, sir. I was making it up as I went. It shouldn’t have worked at all.” 

“But it did, didn’t it?” 

Anakin broke away from the staring contest with his drink and locked eyes with the chancellor. 

“I picked you for this job for a reason,” Palpatine said, his voice level but firm as stone. “You say you had no plan, I say you are brilliant at improvising under pressure. That’s what this job is. Sending you into impossible places to do impossible jobs. No outside support, no army, no warships. You succeeded because you are  _ meant  _ for this.

“You’re a good man, Anakin. Perhaps the best I know. It’s why I wanted you for this task. But you mustn’t let your goodness dissuade you from a  _ greater _ good. Those men knew what they signed up for. If you’d dropped everything and rescued them, perhaps you would have made it out alive. But you would have traded the many for two lives.”

Closing his eyes, Anakin could see a vivid mental picture: the capital ships they’d toppled rising from the canyon, complete, ready to rain hellfire down on Republic worlds. Firing on Republic Star Destroyers—on the  _ Coelacanth _ , maybe. “You say that like you know.”

“My boy, you think I don’t?” Anakin opened his eyes to see that the chancellor looked almost hurt.

Palpatine pressed a button, and the holoprojector atop his desk sprang to life. A map of the galaxy hovered between them—Republic territory green, CIS factions various shades of red eating at the boundaries like a cancer. “Every day,” he told Anakin through the rays of light that separate them, “I choose which pieces of this map we lose and which we rescue. Where we save lives and where we sacrifice them. I’ve seen so much death since the war began—more than I ever wanted.”

The hologram winked out of existence, and there was only Palpatine, weary and somber. “If I thought it was pointless, I would have resigned years ago. But I persist because I know that the sacrifices we make are not in vain.”

The young man held back the question that he wanted above anything else to ask:  _ And does knowing that make you feel . . . good? _

That was what had eaten at him most of all in the days since they’d fled Sluis Van. Not the deaths. The adrenaline rush he’d felt when he and Amina hurtled out of the ship. The bloom of euphoria in his bloodstream as he watched warship crash down upon warship and realized what they’d accomplished. In those moments, he hadn’t thought about the men he’d lost at all.

Aloud, he simply let out a deep sigh. “You still want me to continue with this.” 

“I do,” Palpatine said with a nod. “If we stop now, all you will have accomplished is the capture of one planet. If we keep going, you could help end the war. What’s holding you back, son?”

“I want Amina reassigned,” Anakin said without thinking. The moment the words left his mouth, he felt guilty. The thought had plagued him the entire flight back to Coruscant, but it still seemed wrong to say it out loud. 

“Done,” Palpatine said, waving his hand as if granting a wish. Then, after a moment of silence: “May I ask why? Did her performance in the field not meet your expectations?” 

“No!” Anakin said, leaning forward with insistence. “It’s not that. She just . . .” he allowed himself to trail off for a moment; his eyes wandered to the window, then the wine, then back to Palpatine. “I nearly got her killed. She deserves better.” 

“I assure you, Anakin, each and every one of your crew are prepared to give their lives for the Republic, if need be. But it will be as you ask; I’ll see that she’s reassigned before the next operation.” 

Anakin pretended not to notice the assumption Palpatine was making, speaking of a “next operation” before he’d even agreed to do one. His mind hung on the first statement. The crew was prepared to give their lives for the Republic—and yet here he was, ready to pull the plug because two of them had actually done so. 

His thoughts returned to Thorm and Manik. Two men, dead because of him. The image of Amina, her helmet clattering to the floor as she tore it from her head to desperately gasp for breath. The feeling of snatching a man off the ground moments before he would’ve been run over by a speeder bike. 

Palpatine hadn’t said it. Perhaps he hadn’t even meant to imply it. But Anakin couldn’t help thinking it: had these people nearly died—or  _ actually  _ died—to capture one planet? Or had they done it in service of ending the war? 

Despite all the words swirling in his mind, he could only manage one. “Okay.” 

“You’ll do it?” 

Anakin nodded. “I’ll do it. Make sure that whoever Amina’s next commanding officer is knows this wasn’t a demotion. She comes with the highest recommendation from, well, whatever my title is.” 

A warm smile played on Palpatine’s face. “You, my boy, are to be the chancellor’s right hand. An instrument of the will of the Republic, a vanguard for the safety of her people. And as such, we’d best present you with a rank. You will be called Executor.” 

_ Executor.  _ It had a certain . . . harshness. Swift, decisive.

Anakin didn’t know if he liked it or not.

“Great,” he said hurriedly, hoping the swift response would disperse the awkward tension created by Palpatine’s impromptu speech. “She comes with the highest recommendation from Executor Skywalker.” 

“Ah, that’s one other thing we should discuss,” Palpatine said, holding up a hand. “There is the matter of your name. For the same reason the Grand Army would have used you in parades and stuck you behind a desk, we can’t exactly have an Executor Skywalker running around the galaxy blowing up shipyards. It’s not safe. For you, for me, for the people you love. You’d become a target.” 

Anakin glanced at his feet as the words  _ the people you love  _ hung in the air. “I suppose I would.” 

“It is for this reason that you are to use a . . . code name, of sorts. A pseudonym. Your crew will address you this way, as will I when the situation demands it. This name will be how your work is known throughout the galaxy. This name will be the one they fear. Leaving Anakin Skywalker to live a peaceful life as a civilian.”

Palpatine paused and clasped his hands together. “Go, my son. Take the rest of the day off. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, sir.” With the meeting officially at a close, Anakin felt some of the weight lift—the chancellor, too, seemed to loosen his posture, lapse from executive poise to something less rigid. The young man gave a tired laugh—the release felt good, as though he were pulling off his uniform. “I’m going to sleep for the next . . . day, I think.”

Palpatine chuckled in response. “I do hope Ms. Amidala isn’t disappointed.”

_ Padmé,  _ he thought.  _ Is she even home?  _ No, she wouldn’t be—Alderaan, with Bail.

_ I’ll call her later. Apologize, or try to. After I get some sleep. _

Some of the weight settled back on him with the thought, and he  _ was _ already tired. Rather than be polite and ask Palpatine what  _ he  _ planned to do with his evening, he offered a slight bow of his head, then rose to his feet and turned toward the door. “Good-bye, sir.”

Palpatine nodded. “You’ll have your next assignment soon enough, my boy.” He straightened suddenly, as if remembering. “Or should I say Executor Vader.”

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: CORUSCANT TRANSIT AUTHORITY** _

The Coruscant Transit Authority is a subordinate agency of the Senate Committee on Infrastructure, and is responsible for the mass transit network found throughout the galactic capital world. Thousands of train stations and their connecting lines make up the bulk of this transit network, which operates on a “hub and spoke” model. Short-haul local routes all depart from hubs designated as superstations, which are in turn connected by express lines that can take passengers halfway around Coruscant in a matter of hours.

Transit fares are partially paid for by credits raised through taxes—Republic citizens living on Coruscant are allotted a certain number of transit trips per month, and must pay a nominal fare for any trips they take beyond that allowance. A Coruscanti resident can earn extra transit trips if they submit proof that they do not own an airspeeder or other personal planetary vehicle. 

The Coruscant Transit Authority is one of the oldest federal agencies in the Republic, and operates out of the equally historic Coruscant Central Station. A large collectors market has emerged around the historic “train token”—metal coins once issued by the CTA as a way to pass through station turnstiles and board trains. These tokens have long since been supplanted by wireless passcards that scan automatically as a user passes through a turnstile, deducting credit from their account accordingly. 


	17. A Proportionate Response (Part IV: Opposite and Equal)

This ship was no  _ Charybdis,  _ but it would have to do. 

Valis—not Valis the Sith, or Valis the admiral, but Valis the pirate, adorned in her armor of black and of bone—weaved her way through the capital ship’s cargo hold. She’d forgotten the vessel’s name already. It didn’t matter. The whole fleet they’d brought from San Sestina was the same. Coated in rust— _ inside and out,  _ she thought with disdain as she scraped her boot along the corroded deck—bristling with pointy implements that served no function save intimidation, their engines spewing black smog into the ship’s interior any time they were pushed past idle. 

But this was their fleet now. The men bustling about were their crew. This was how they’d win. 

She hauled herself on top of a cargo crate in the center of the hold and cupped her hands around her mouth to shout. “Pirates!” 

Everyone froze and turned to look at her. If there had been any doubt before, this erased it—these were not clones. Clones would have been perfectly, uncannily still. The pirates had an uneasy energy, bobbing back and forth from one foot to the (sometimes prosthetic) other as they awaited the word from their admiral. 

“We’ve done it.”  _ No, make it singular. Appeal to their ego.  _ “Everyone in the Core knows your name. Fears you. You drove terror into the heart of every Republic citizen.” She paused to take a deep breath. “Now it is time to strike that same fear into every Republic soldier.” 

A low, throaty growl emerged from the crowd of pirates. Barbaric, and at once invigorating. Valis continued. 

“They say it cannot be done. Anyone may attack the Republic, but no one attacks Kuat Drive Yards. To that I say: we attacked Coruscant.” 

Another roar from the crowd. 

“Who wants to tear apart a Star Destroyer?” 

From the edge of the room, a single shouting voice rose above the rumble: “Just one?” 

Valis grinned and jabbed her finger in the voice’s direction. “An excellent question! No, not just one.  _ Hundreds _ . We are going to arrive at Kuat with the force of a maelstrom and snap that damn orbital ring in half!” 

Shouts and growls filled the cargo hold, and for a brief moment Valis allowed herself to add her voice to the chorus. Leaping down from the cargo crate that had served as her impromptu soapbox, she shoved her way through the raucous crowd of pirates and toward the cargo hold doors. 

Maul was leaning against the wall beside them. 

“You know how to rile them up,” he said, shoving away from the wall and falling in step beside Valis as she moved past him. “One might even be forgiven for mistaking you for one of them—”

“Shut up,” she snapped as the doors whisked shut behind them. “I do what I must to rally the troops. That is all.” 

With that, she froze in place. They’d arrived at what passed for a turbolift aboard the pirate vessel—an old cargo elevator, slower and larger than what was found on more civilized ships. She stepped aboard, Maul at her heels, and pulled the large lever that sent the platform creaking upward to the command deck. 

“I sense unease,” she muttered, glaring at the Zabrak who now paced back and forth in what little space the cargo lift offered him. “Speak your mind, Maul. Do you have doubts about this attack?” 

“I have doubts about whether all your pirates will survive it, but that is hardly a concern,” he answered, not bothering to look her in the eye. He reached one end of the lift, spun on a heel, and kept moving. “I also doubt whether we can really destroy the entire shipyard.” Then he paused, making the briefest bit of eye contact before resuming his pacing. “What if  _ he’s  _ there?” 

There could only be one person Maul was referring to. “Vader?” she asked, forcing herself to scoff as she spoke the name. “He won’t be.” 

“You seem quite certain.”   
  
“I am,” she said. “That’s not how they use him.” 

“Ah,” Maul growled. “So you’re an expert on their tactics now?” 

She shot him a pointed glare. “I observe.” Silently, she wished Mate were here to project a map of the galaxy, or that she had a piece of flimsiplast to sketch a visual aid—then she discarded the thought. Such luxuries would have been wasted on Maul. 

“It began at Sluis Van,” she said, holding an open palm in the air. “Attacking a shipyard is a fairly standard act of war, but Vader didn’t destroy it completely. He didn’t capture it. That task fell to the strike fleet they sent in after him.

“A week later he was at Czerka’s main factory, blowing up weapons assembly lines. Again,  _ he  _ didn’t destroy everything—he left the door open for the Grand Army to finish the job. The following week, the vaults on Muunilist fell victim to arson. Vader burned a  _ lot  _ of money. But total economic collapse? Hardly. A disruption, nothing more.” 

“Get to the point,” Maul said, baring his teeth as he paced by her.

“Vader is an agent of chaos. A destabilizing influence, sowing discord among the remnants of the Confederacy so that the Grand Army has an easier shot at winning a more conventional war. Not so different from what we pulled at Coruscant, really.”

The Zabrak’s amber eyes narrowed. “He has yet to attack us.” 

Valis nodded. “I suspect we are rather low on the priority list. Even if they know where we are, San Sestina is quite deep into former Confederate space. Disrupting our operation to aid the Grand Army is a useless gesture if they cannot attack us yet.” The admission stung a little—it had been the only way to survive, to beat both the Confederacy  _ and _ ultimately the Republic, yet the loss of their position as a foe equal to the galaxy’s rulers couldn’t help but burn.

_ That’s what we’re here for. Beginning to turn the tables again. _

Maul yanked her back to the present. “That can’t be the only reason. What else?” 

A grin tugged at the edge of her mouth. “We are Sith. We’re in agreement that this Vader is the apprentice Sidious threatened us with, yes?” 

Silence lingered, though Maul offered her an affirmative nod. 

“Then I imagine we are something of a final test. Sidious will send Vader after us only when he feels he is ready. Unless certain events convince one of them to”—she paused and considered her words—”alter that timeline.” 

Maul once again froze in place and glared at her. “You’re doing this as a stunt. Drawing attention.” 

“You said every engagement was about gaining power, Maul. Leverage is power. It is in our best interest to lure out and destroy Vader as soon as possible. Sidious is training him to kill us. The longer we wait to face him, the more dangerous he becomes.” 

At that moment, the cargo lift ground to a halt. They’d arrived at the command deck. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a shipyard to attack.” 

For a moment he said nothing. The look on his face—narrowed eyes, tattooed brow contorted into a shape Valis hadn’t often seen—suggested deeper thought than the Zabrak usually engaged in. 

“If you don’t mind, Lady Valis,” he began, straightening up as he spoke. “I’d like to join you on the bridge for this.” 

“Of course, Lord Maul.” 

Side by side, apprentice and master took their posts of command. 

* * *

The first wave caught them all off guard. 

Kuat Drive Yards was as much a corporate headquarters as it was a military base, more factory than fortress. Yes, at any given time it was home to hundreds of Star Destroyers, but those Star Destroyers weren’t at the ready, their crews weren’t standing by. Even Typhoon Division _ ,  _ who had elected to stay aboard the  _ Coelacanth _ while it sat in the orbital docking ring that encircled the planet Kuat, had been unprepared when the pirate ships—a dozen in all—had dropped out of hyperspace just off the daytime side of the planet. 

Repairs to the  _ Coelacanth  _ weren’t yet finished, but the alert klaxons worked just fine—much to the annoyance of one Samantha Reyes, who tried her damndest to shut out the blaring notes as she darted from one end of the bridge to the other and back again for what felt like the millionth time. 

“Will somebody shut that alarm off?” she shouted at no one in particular, sliding into the seat in front of her console and nearly tumbling off the edge of it in the process. Her fingers flew across the keyboard and her eyes darted across the terminal display as Reyes attempted to route what power the  _ Coelacanth  _ had—it wasn’t full capacity, but it’d have to do—between shields and weapons and engines. 

Her fingers briefly hovered over the key that would initiate the hyperdrive startup routine— _ no, we won’t flee,  _ she thought as she froze in hesitation.  _ The commander would never.  _ She shook her head and pressed it anyway. He could yell at her for wasting power on something they would never use if he wanted to; it was better to be prepared. 

“Commanding officer on deck!” 

The shout came from a low-ranking crewman in the bridge pit—one who was evidently paying far more attention than Reyes was. Instinctively she shot up out of her chair and raised her hand in salute, just in time to hear Cody’s voice—laced with annoyance, directed mostly at her. 

“As you were, all of you! Don’t stop what you’re doing on my account.” 

As she fell back into her seat, Cody moved toward her—rather than looming over her shoulder like he used to, he had come to rest beside her, his wheelchair keeping him at Reyes’ eye level. 

“What’re we up against?” he asked, his voice low. She’d long since learned what that meant.  _ If he talks quietly, so do you _ . 

“I cross-referenced the pirate ship transponders with vessels we faced at Coruscant. Some of them are a match. It’s almost certainly Valis.”

Cody said nothing; a low grumble emerged from between his teeth. 

“I don’t understand, sir,” Reyes continued. “Why attack Kuat? She can’t destroy the whole shipyard, not with a fleet of that size.” 

“She doesn’t have to,” he answered, spinning to face away from her and crossing his arms before bringing a hand up to stroke his chin. “All she has to do is damage the Star Destroyers. Even at wartime production speeds, it takes months to make one. Take one that’s under construction and wreck it enough, and we’ll have to start all over. Take a hundred that’re under construction—”

“Dammit,” Reyes whispered, interrupting him. If it bothered the commander, he didn’t show it. 

“I’m assuming systems are booting up?” 

She nodded. “As we speak, sir.” 

“See if you can get us out of these docking clamps. I don’t want to just sit here and take a beating, I want to get out and fight.” 

“Already underway, sir. I can’t release us from here, I had to put in a request with the orbital dockyard control station.” Reyes turned to glance out the bridge viewport; beyond the bow of the  _ Coelacanth _ , a grand ring of durasteel encircled the planet below. It was composed of identical sections that had long ago been assembled in space. Each section housed a dry-docked Star Destroyer—though some ships were dark, signs of life emerged from others. Lights from the bridge, the gentle glow of idle engines.  _ I’m not the only one who asked to be set free,  _ she thought. “It might be a while.” 

“What about Sawshark squadron?” 

“Scrambled. Half of them are already in the air, the other half will be launched within a few minutes.”

“Good. Until we can get out of this repair dock, they’re our lifeline.” 

As if responding to the commander’s words, a pair of Z-95s streaked by the viewport, spirals of glowing energy drifting in their wake. 

Reyes nodded. “They won’t let us down, sir.” 

* * *

“ _ Targets incoming!”  _

“ _ Let them pass between us! _ ” Sawshark Two called out over the comm; a grin tugged at the edges of Karin Janzen’s mouth. Her wingmate would run this squadron one day, she was sure of it. Recruitment had taken a nosedive—after Serenno, the once great Sawshark Squadron had lost some of its luster to up-and-coming Alderaanian pilots—but that hadn’t crushed Shiiva’s spirit. She’d kept the squadron together on the days that Karin couldn’t. It didn't matter that they were two people shy of a full unit—the ten of them were stronger than two regular squadrons put together. 

Sawshark Leader gripped her control yoke tighter as clusters of pirate starfighters sliced through the space between the Sawshark Z-95s. The auditory simulators told a tale of engines souped up well beyond safety regulations—guttural growls scratched at Karin’s ears as the last of the fighters shot by just above her. 

“ _ Breaking off to pursue,”  _ came a voice on the comm, one as throaty as the pirate starfighter engines that had just flown by. Rin Hatchko, vigilant as ever, always looking for a fight. 

“No,” Karin said—then, remembering her mic was on mute, she thumbed a toggle switch on her control board. “No! Forget about the fighters, Six. The Drive Yards have point defense cannons for a reason. We focus on the galleons. Pair off with your wingmate, pick a ship, and start strafing runs.” 

A chorus of affirmative replies sounded across the comm. With one hand, Karin banked her fighter to port—a glance out the window revealed Shiiva was perfectly in step with the maneuver—with the other, she keyed her comm to a private channel. 

“Sawshark Leader to  _ Coelacanth  _ bridge.” 

“ _ So formal, _ ” came the reply. Reyes’ voice was laced with levity—a bit too much, Karin thought, considering the situation. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Karin said. “They let you out of ship jail yet?” 

“ _ That’s a negative,”  _ Reyes answered. “ _ Still waiting. What can I do for you?”  _

Karin scanned the battlefield. With Kuat and her orbital dockyard ring at their backs, all the Sawsharks could see was a blanket of blackness and the pirate ships suspended in it. None were of a standard design; all featured menacingly pointy hull protrusions and a not insignificant helping of rust. “All these ships look the same to me,” she said. “I need some help here.” 

_ “Actually, they all look different,”  _ Reyes said.  _ “I imagine that’s the problem.”  _ The tail end of the transmission crackled as an errant turbolaser bolt sailed wide of Karin’s starfighter. She adjusted her grip on the controls, bobbing and weaving the Z-95 for good measure. 

“I can’t tell who’s in charge,” she said, wincing as another volley of turbolaser fire sizzled past her ship. Gripping a dial between thumb and forefinger, she moved all her shield power to the front half of the vessel— _ for all the good it’ll do,  _ she thought with a wince. “Any chance you could point me in the direction of one Admiral Valis?” 

_ “Already on it. Sending targeting data to you and Shiiva now.”  _

Karin’s eyes grew wide, and she nodded to nobody. Reyes was nothing if not proactive. 

_ “Kick her ass for me, Karin.”  _

“You got it.” She keyed the comm back to the squadron channel. “Shiiva, on my wing. We’ve got a bombing run to make.” 

_ “Copy that, Leader. I’m locked and loaded.”  _

In perfect unison, two Headhunters shot toward the galleon. From the outside it looked like all the others—a different shape, perhaps, though not one that screamed “command ship” or advertised “admiral on board.” But Karin Janzen knew. The targeting computer didn’t lie. It painted a red square around the galleon before her, and she tried to imagine the face of Admiral Valis as she streaked toward the warship and emptied an entire tube of concussion missiles into its hull. 

* * *

Smoke left a painful sting in Valis’ eyes. 

The  _ Charybdis  _ could have taken that hit, she was certain of it. Perhaps slamming it into a planet to stick it to a Sith Lord had been a bit shortsighted. What she wouldn’t have done to have her old ship back right about now. 

Glancing across the bridge, she locked eyes with Maul—the Zabrak was hauling himself to his feet, annoyance painted on his face. He angled his head so his horns pointed out the viewport and raised his eyebrows as if to say  _ Your move.  _

“We’re fine, we’re fine!” the ship’s captain hollered from within a grey cloud near the rear of the bridge—part burning computer console, part fire extinguisher foam. “It’s more cosmetic damage than anything, really.” 

As the pirate captain emerged from the cloud, bits of foam clinging to his flight suit, Valis shot him a look of disdain. Cosmetic damage, she thought, was the rust that already coated this garbage heap’s hull. Smoldering computer banks, on the other hand . . .

“How many more hits like that can we take, Captain?” she asked. She hadn’t bothered to commit the man’s name to memory, and at this point didn’t see that changing—but she would at least spare him the embarrassment of calling him the nickname she’d overheard back on San Sestina. On the bridge, he was “Captain.” 

The captain coughed as he shook a glob of foam from his boot. “I couldn’t say for sure, really—”

“Two to three, ma’am.” This voice came from behind Valis; it was younger, carrying with it a nervous vibrato. She slowly rotated to face its source—the helmsman, seated at the ship’s controls. When she said nothing, the young pirate continued. “Sorry, Admiral. If I may?” 

Valis nodded. “Please.” 

“It’s the shields, see. They’re rigged for engagement against larger capital ships. We’re projecting them about a meter and a half above the hull, so turbolaser impacts don’t splash energy into the plating. But those Headhunters can dip their noses beneath it while they make their bombing runs.” 

“Can you change that?” 

He nodded. “Of course, it’ll only take a moment.” 

“Do it,” she snapped, whirling on a heel and marching toward the bridge viewport. As she walked, she extracted a cigarette from a pouch on her belt, placed it between her lips, and inhaled deeply as a lighter’s flame met the end. 

Before she could exhale the first drag, Maul was beside her whispering in her ear. “This captain is incompetent,” he hissed as the pair came to stop just before the window.

“Why do you think I selected this ship to command in battle?” she asked, plucking the cigarette from her mouth and holding it at her side. “It keeps him out of the way.” 

“Not enough,” Maul said, gesturing out the window. 

The last bombing run had done more than damage the bridge. Burning holes, the marks of concussion missile impacts, dotted their way down the entire length of the pirate galleon. They’d seared away the rust and collapsed several of the pointed spears that emerged uselessly from the ship’s hull. 

His point made, Maul continued. “Let me kill him.” 

Valis fought the urge to glare at him, instead keeping her gaze locked out toward the battle beyond the viewport. “Absolutely not.”

“Coward.” 

This was enough to draw her gaze—and her ire—toward Maul. “We can’t do that anymore. These people aren’t clones. We need the captains to command their loyalty.” 

“ _ You  _ should be the one commanding their loyalty.” With that he turned away from her—on the prowl once again, he paced toward the rear of the bridge. Valis raised her hand to her mouth and inhaled through the cigarette. 

As the smoke passed between her lips, a rhythmic series of impacts came knocking from above. From the rear of the galleon toward the bow, the same pair of Z-95 Headhunters streaked forward, concussion missiles leaping from their noses. This time, the warheads impacted almost uselessly against the pirate vessel’s shields. 

_ Almost.  _ A key word, that one. Valis could see the deflectors ripple and flicker against the rust of the hull beyond the window. They’d hold for one, maybe two more bombing runs. The shield adjustment had bought them time, but not much of it. 

“Ready the quad cannons,” she snapped at no one in particular, glancing backwards over her shoulder as she spoke. “On their next bombing run, we fire back.” 

“Quad cannons are aligned for a broadside, Admiral,” the helmsman piped up, prompting Valis to whirl around and glare at him. “As I said,” he continued, his gaze dropping toward his lap, “we’re rigged to face capital ships.” 

She felt the anger creeping up the back of her neck, the curses dancing toward the front of her tongue—and then Valis stopped herself. The helmsman hadn’t made that decision. His job was to fly the ship, and he seemed competent at far more than that. The captain, on the other hand . . . 

In an instant she was marching toward him, though she stopped just shy of invading the captain’s personal space. “Why in god’s name would you align point defense cannons for a broadside? Starfighters attack  _ along  _ the spine of a ship, not across it!” 

She fought the urge to swear, not out of a sense of propriety—these were pirates, after all—but a desire to seem at least moderately composed. Here she was, explaining basic battle tactics to a so-called ship captain while their fleet inched ever closer to the megastructure of Kuat Drive Yards. Their galleon was being picked apart by Z-95 Headhunters—and not even a full squadron of them, but a measly pair. Their laser cannons were aligned to fight warships, not starfighters—something she knew could only be re-rigged at a dockyard. No point in asking to change it now. 

Frustration sufficiently bottled up, she returned her gaze to the window. It was perhaps the only safe place to stare.  _ Don’t look at Maul, his sneer will make you angrier. Don’t look at the captain, you might end up smacking him.  _

Valis once again found herself turning toward the helmsman, perhaps the sole competent member of the bridge crew. She hadn’t bothered to remember the captain’s name, but this one? This one she’d make a point to learn when this battle was in the rearview mirror. 

“How agile is this vessel?” she asked the young man. “If I wanted to, say, pitch the nose up thirty degrees? How quickly could you make that happen?” 

“About eight seconds,” came the reply—impressively prompt, Valis noted. The boy didn’t poke at his terminal, didn’t scratch out numbers on a piece of flimsi. He just  _ knew _ . “But if you’re looking for rapid movement, pitching isn’t your best bet. Our roll axis jets are snappier.” 

“And how’s your reaction time?” 

The helmsman sat up straight, adjusting his grip on the controls. “As fast as you need it to be.” 

This brought a smile to her face. She nodded at the helmsman, then spun to face the viewport. The Headhunters had made their approach for another attack run. They were nearly at the vessel’s nose. It was time to put those ridiculous pointy implements bristling along the hull to good use. 

“Prepare to maneuver on my mark.” 

* * *

The auditory simulator didn’t know what to do with a rusted spear hitting hull plating. Then again, it didn’t need to. 

The sound of warship slamming into snubfighter traveled through the structure of Karin’s Headhunter, rattling her teeth as the inertial compensator fought to keep her from passing out and she fought to keep the contents of her stomach from spewing out her mouth. Stars swirled outside the viewport. Up became sideways, then became upside down before a twist of the stick righted her again. The ring of the Drive Yards was to her right, Valis’ galleon off the port wing. Sawshark Two was nowhere to be found. 

“Shiiva?” 

_ “Sawshark Leader, I’ve got a problem.”  _

Words no squadron leader ever wanted to hear. Karin’s stomach was too busy swirling to sink as her wingmate continued. 

_ “I think I’m leaking fuel.”  _

Those spears along the hull hadn’t just been for show—or perhaps they had, until a duo as crazy as Maul and as cunning as Valis had taken command of the galleon. Shiiva’s damage report began to sink in, and Karin took a moment to assess her own ship before opening the comm. Cosmetic damage was a certainty, but beyond that all ship systems seemed to be in the green. Sawshark Two had taken the brunt of the hit when the galleon had plowed into them. 

“I’ll fly closer so I can get a good look at it,” Karin said, wrapping her fingers around the flight stick and angling it toward her. 

“ _ All due respect, boss, but that’s a stupid idea. You and I both know how this works. I’m spitting fuel out into open space. If it catches fire the whole tank could blow. I’m basically flying a bomb. I’m not getting anywhere near you.” _

Karin’s voice shook as she spoke. “Go land in the  _ Coelacanth  _ for repairs, then.” 

“ _ That would be even stupider. We just finished getting her repaired, I’m not landing an improvised explosive in the hangar.”  _

Her stomach had finished spinning and finally sank as panic welled up within her. Karin could feel her palms sweating inside her flight gloves. “Eject, then. We’ll send a shuttle—”

_ “We both know how this ends for me, Karin! I’m sorry. I’ve got one move left, I need to make it count.”  _

Spinning her Z-95 in place, Karin frantically searched the stars for her wingmate. Her eyes darted from one landmark to another—the Kuat Drive Yards orbital ring, the swarm of Sawsharks tangling with the other pirate ships, the galleon that had sealed Shiiva’s fate.

_ There _ . A lone Headhunter, painted teeth adorning its nose and iridescent spirals of liquid trailing from one engine nacelle like tendrils of a jellyfish. It was poised like a knife at the belly of the beast, resting just below the ventral surface of Valis’ galleon. 

“ _ Godspeed, Sawshark Leader. Give them hell for me.”  _

A flare of engines roaring to life bloomed into a torchlight as the trail of fuel caught fire. The blazing Headhunter slammed into the galleon, and the fireball grew. 

One that felt just as bright and ten times hotter burned within the pit of Karin’s stomach as the auditory simulator played the thump of a delayed explosion. Then, one by one, the thumping sounds continued. 

_ Thwump. Thwump-thwump. Thwump.  _

These sounds were coming from behind her. 

Karin yanked the stick right, saying one more goodbye to Shiiva as the blazing pirate ship passed out of view. What replaced the space outside her cockpit glass brought the pilot back to the reality of battle. A second pirate fleet had arrived, dropping out of hyperspace on the opposite side of Kuat—they had taken the long way around to squeeze the orbital shipyard from both sides. 

A buzz sounded in her ear. New comm chatter.  _ “Sawshark Leader, this is Sawshark Six.” _

She choked on her words at first, praying the fuzz of the comm channel would cover for her. “Go ahead, Roland.” 

“ _ I’m sure you noticed the new arrivals. We could use some help over here. Half of us had to go back to the  _ Coelacanth  _ for missile resupply. I could use a wing.”  _ The Bith must have paused, though the hiss of an open line filled the silence somewhat.  _ “It looks like you could use one too.”  _

She couldn’t summon her voice, instead settling for a transmission of two rapid clicks. Roland seemed to understand; the comm call disconnected shortly after, leaving Karin alone on an open channel. 

Easing the throttle upward, she pointed her ship toward the fireworks show that surrounded Kuat Drive Yards. It was time to join the rest of Sawshark Squadron. 

What was left of it. 

* * *

The bridge was bathed in red. The red of tiny fires crackling at control consoles, and of every emergency light pulsing on and off in slow rhythm. 

If they all went out, Valis was sure she could illuminate the place with pure rage. This was his fault. Every bit of it. If he’d adjusted the shields and aligned the cannons right from the jump, she wouldn’t have needed to resort to such barbaric tactics. Wouldn’t have turned an enemy starfighter into a goddamn bomb. 

She reached through the Force—the curtain of smoke had become too thick to see more than a few feet—and located Maul. He was alive, unharmed, and somehow less angry than she was.  _ Intense irritation  _ was the emotion she sensed—directed at her, no less.  _ If you’d only listened to me,  _ his voice echoed in her head. 

She shoved it aside and continued searching for life throughout the bridge. The helmsman was alright, thank god—dutifully and swiftly poking at his console to manage the damage they’d sustained. If the ship was still maneuverable, Valis knew he’d find a way to maneuver it. 

“Helmsman,” she shouted through the smog, “pull us away from the battle, we’re too wounded to fight. Tell the rest of the fleet to join the second strike group. They’re to pick a spot on the orbital ring and shoot at it until it blows up.”

“Aye aye, ma’am!” came the shout from within the cloud of smoke. Between coughs, the voice continued: “Just trying to clear the air on the bridge. One moment.” 

A mechanical hiss sounded at various points around the room, and the haze began to dissipate as filtration vents sucked the smoke away. As the air cleared, Valis was left standing face to face with the one man she didn’t want to see. 

“Ah, captain,” she managed through clenched teeth. “So glad to see you’re alright.” 

“Yes, well, that really was quite the impact. I’m shocked we managed as well as we did.” 

_ I’m sure you are, _ Valis thought. Aloud, she said: “Don’t you think we should head down below? Assess the damage?” 

“Oh, I’m sure the lower deck crews have it handled.” 

“I insist. After you, Captain.” She gestured with an open hand toward the bridge door—it opened of its own accord. 

The pair marched toward the opening, Valis sticking close to the captain’s heels. They neared the exit, and she glanced over her shoulder, throwing a casual shout behind her. “Helmsman, the bridge is yours!” 

As the door slid shut behind them, Valis’ fingers brushed against the hilt of her lightsaber. 

* * *

The second wave of ships had arrived with the drumbeat of a marching army, bass notes of the simulated sound made by a hyperspace exit. One after the other, a new collection of galleons and schooners had appeared and started vomiting smaller ships into the void as if someone had kicked a hornet’s nest. 

The bombers they’d brought with them had picked away at the docked, half-finished Star Destroyers. They were chained there like hospital patients hooked to bacta bags, unable to do anything except tank the hits. Most had managed to withstand the fire. Some—the ones further away from being completely constructed—had crumbled like wet cardboard. 

Roland G’ex died a little on the inside every time another Star Destroyer fell. He knew the pain of an engineer watching their hard work fall apart—it happened every time one of the Sawsharks came back from a battle with a melted laser cannon or a cooked engine nacelle. He tried to never seem too upset, though—a damaged ship to fix meant the pilot flying it had survived. 

Sometimes his fellow squadron members weren’t so lucky. He tried to shove the thought aside as a new light came to life on his tactical display—he had a wingmate again. The woman who had just lost hers. Sawshark Leader. 

“Welcome to the party!” he hollered over the comm line— _ party _ , he figured, was as apt a description as any. The lasers flying from pirate ship to dockyard ring, the explosions going off like popcorn across his field of vision—they rivaled the lights and pyrotechnics of every nightclub he’d ever been to. 

_ “Hope you didn’t have too much fun without me,”  _ came Karin’s reply—in an instant, Roland knew how they were going to play this.  _ Pretend nothing happened to Shiiva,  _ he told himself.  _ She’ll deal with it later. We all will.  _ Good strategy, one they taught in most flight schools. You don’t start mourning until you’re safely on the ground. 

“ _ Just another day at work, blowing up some bombers,”  _ another voice called out—Ailish Ero, the young Mirialan who flew as Sawshark Ten. 

_ “I notice we’re flying kinda light, _ ” Karin said. Roland glanced off his port wing just in time to witness her Headhunter slide into position beside his.  _ “What’s going on?”  _

Skultin Zxarn, wingmate to Ailish, spoke up with an answer,  _ “The enemy bombers are quite resilient. Combat data thus far indicates laser fire is all but useless, and an average of three point eight-two concussion missiles are required to take one down.”  _

_ “Round it up to an even four just to be safe,”  _ Ailish added. 

_ “Suggested targets for maximum damage would be the engines, according to combat data gathered thus far. Of course, if you are feeling blessed with Kresk Jah’lyr levels of accuracy, the cockpit glass may be more effective—” _

Throat buzzing in the Bith equivalent of a cough, Roland inserted himself back into the conversation. “Some of us got a little trigger happy, ran out of missiles.” 

“ _ Rin?”  _ Sawshark Leader asked. 

“You said it, not me.” Roland’s wingman was among the more aggressive members of Sawshark Squadron—though Rin Hatchko got results, there was no denying it. And in the Barabel’s defense, he hadn’t been the only Sawshark to burn through his supply of concussion missiles shooting down bombers—five pilots had returned to the  _ Coelacanth  _ for resupply.

_ “Alright then, Sawsharks. Conserve your ammo, pair off, pick a pack of bombers and take them down. Move!”  _

At Karin’s command, the two pairs of Z-95s shot off in different directions. Roland and Sawshark Leader were flying as one, descending nearly to the surface of the Kuat Drive Yards orbital ring. From such a distance, the metal loop seemed to stretch on to infinity, with the illusion that it had no curvature at all. An infinite span of shipyard, with partial Star Destroyers slotted in at even intervals and a show of lasers and pyrotechnics exploding from the pirate ships overhead. 

Though durable, the pirate bombers weren’t nearly fast enough to outrun a Headhunter—or two, as it were. As Karin and Roland skimmed the ring’s surface, concussion missiles leapt from the noses of their fighters and slammed into the back of one bomber. It tumbled forward, bouncing off the shipyard structure as it bloomed into a fireball—shrapnel sizzled against Roland’s shields as he shot through the blaze and out the other side. 

_ “Nice shot, Five!” _

“Pretty sure I only get half the credit, Leader. We’ll have to each paint part of that one on our hulls.” 

_ “Deal,”  _ Karin said.  _ “What’s your ammo count?”  _

Roland glanced at his heads up display and winced. “Fresh out,” he answered—an obnoxiously large red “0” blinked at him from beside the missile counter. 

Static preceded Sawshark Leader’s reply.  _ “That makes two of us. Head back for resupply.” _

_ “Uh, Sawshark Leader?”  _ another voice cut in over the comm line—it was Ailish, sounding even more tense than usual.  _ “One’s getting away.”  _

Roland scanned his instruments, then the infinite span of metal that stretched beyond his cockpit glass.  _ There _ . A lone bomber, rocketing away from Ailish and Skultin’s Headhunters as laser fire splashed uselessly against its rear armor plating. 

_ “Let it go, Ten. We’ll catch it on the next run.”  _

_ “That may be ill advised, Leader,”  _ Skultin said.  _ “Scans indicate it is still carrying a full proton bomb payload. Significant destructive potential.”  _

“We should do something,” Roland added, his heart quickening as he watched the bomber’s flight path. What would it unleash its payload on? Another Star Destroyer? Something worse?

The answer dawned on him— _ something so much worse.  _ The distant pirate bomber was headed directly for a cluster of spheres mounted against the Kuat Drive Yards ring. Fuel tanks, Roland knew. Kuat kept stores of fuel stocked at even intervals around the ring, meant to provide quick distribution to any ships that needed it. Right now, though, the cluster of tanks wasn’t a refueling station. 

It was a bomb waiting to be set off. 

“We have to do something,” he said. “Now.” 

_ “That’s a negative,”  _ Karin said—even through the comm line, the newly added harshness in her voice was unmistakable.  _ “There’s nothing we  _ can  _ do. Return to home base for resupply, everyone. That’s an order!”  _

“There is something we can do, Leader,” Roland said, easing his throttle forward. “An old Rin Hatchko special.” 

_ “Roland, no—” _

He slammed the throttle to full power; the simulated roar of the engines drowned out his comm. The Bith’s fingers flew across the fighter’s controls as he fought to keep it steady—the ship was his instrument, its flight his performance. 

First, the targeting computer—Roland set its sights on the distant bomber. It was too far away, the computer warned him. He’d never catch it in time, not at this speed. 

He shut off his laser cannons. They were useless anyway, he didn’t need them. The newly freed power got sent to his thrusters. The Headhunter was moving faster now. 

Next went the shields. With what he had planned, they’d just get in the way. That power, too, got shunted to the engines. Now the Z-95 was rattling along, bolts in the substructure singing as they were stressed beyond their limits. He couldn’t keep this up forever, but he didn’t need to. 

Finally, the comm. The power it drew was minimal, but the shouting in his ear—three squadron members, three friends, pleading him to abort the maneuver, was beyond distracting. He shut it off and sent the power to the engines. 

Rin Hatchko had done this more than once, and had tried to teach Roland. This, he supposed, was the final exam. His Headhunter pulled up alongside the fleeing pirate bomber; then, with a flick of the flight stick, he was  _ above  _ the enemy vessel.

Another flick of the stick sent both ships slamming downward. 

The scraping noise—metal on metal on metal again, fighter pressed against bomber pressed against the ring of Kuat Drive Yards—sent a shiver up Roland’s spine. Sparks of friction shot out from behind the stack of vessels as the bomber, sandwiched between Roland’s Headhunter and the ring, began to slow down. Roland pushed against the flight stick again, applying further pressure to the pirate beneath him until he heard a great  _ crack _ . 

He’d done it. Just like Rin had taught him. Something important—it didn’t really matter what—had broken free of the bomber. Roland pulled the flight stick back, tearing his Z-95 away from the unwelcome formation, and watched as the bomber bounded along the ring’s surface like a tumbleweed listing in the wind. 

Noticing the Headhunter still screeching and shaking in protest, Roland pressed buttons and toggled switches to balance his ship’s power back to normal. First came the shields, then the weapons. Finally he powered his comm back on, and though he gave it his best effort, he couldn’t resist the urge to gloat. 

“Now  _ that  _ is how it’s done!” He was certain the grin plastered across his face came through loud and clear across the channel. 

_ “Never do that again, Five,”  _ Sawshark Leader called out—though Roland could tell she was having trouble injecting any sort of reprimand into her voice. Then, after a moment of nothing but static:  _ “I think the drinks are on you tonight. Rin’s gonna love hearing about this one.”  _

“Indeed he will.” Roland allowed himself a long exhale. “Heading back to the  _ Coelacanth  _ for resupply, as ordered.” He reached up and switched off his comm. 

As he did, Roland’s eyes fell on the targeting computer—which was still firmly locked on the battered, drifting bomber.  _ Strange,  _ he thought, tapping the display with a pointed fingertip.  _ It didn’t register a kill.  _ His gaze moved upward, from the targeting computer to the window, until it came across the pirate bomber. Damaged, but very much intact, it had drifted close enough to the cluster of fuel tanks to scrape a wing against their plating. 

Then it exploded. 

A shockwave of fire bloomed outward from the fuel tanks and slammed into Roland’s Z-95. He felt the heat radiating through the structure of his vessel, the light searing through the cockpit glass as the polarizer struggled to keep up. The force of motion throwing him in every direction at once as his ship spiraled through space and tore itself apart. 

In an instant, fire and heat and light became ice and cold and black. It was the last thing Roland G’ex would ever feel. 

* * *

The galleon’s bridge doors slid aside to welcome Admiral Valis, pulling back like curtains just in time for her to witness the explosion. 

When she’d stood atop a crate in the cargo hold, shouting to her pirate crew about snapping an orbital ring in half, she hadn’t meant it. It had been hyperbole, a grand proclamation designed to rally the troops for battle and nothing more. She certainly hadn’t expected such a thing to materialize before her eyes. 

And yet, here it was. 

Valis—the pirate, the admiral, the Sith—stood in awe, lightsaber still in hand as a great rift tore through the ringed structure of Kuat Drive Yards. This was a greater victory than she could have asked for. The battered husk of a galleon she now commanded, one which could barely limp through the space above Kuat, didn’t matter anymore. They’d done even more than they’d come here to do. 

Still clutching her saber, she strolled past the helmsman—the young man remained dutifully at his station, awaiting further instructions. Valis glanced down at him as she moved by and offered some. 

“Order the fleet to return to headquarters. Our work here is finished.” 

“Aye aye, ma’am.”

She stepped toward the viewport where Maul stood and came to a stop beside him. Valis gave one last glance back at the helmsman—when they returned to San Sestina, she’d have to see him rewarded for his work here.  _ Perhaps with his own command.  _

Her gaze shifted out the viewport as galleons and schooners across the starscape disappeared into hyperspace one after the other. Soon there was nothing left but their pirate ship and the burning wreckage of the Drive Yards—and then the starlines of hyperspace replaced the carnage they’d created. 

Maul, she could sense, was now glaring at her instead of out the window. She turned to face him and cocked her head to one side, inviting whatever snide remark he surely had prepared. 

None came. Instead he turned briefly to look out into the swirling blue void, then stared down at the lightsaber in her hand. Finally, amber eyes met her own, and the Zabrak nodded. 

“Well done.” 

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: RIGGING** _

“Rigging” is spacefaring shorthand for adjusting a starship so it is suited for a specific type of navigation or engagement.

Independent spacers, pirates, and small fleets utilize rigging to allow a smaller number of ships to serve a greater number of roles. Realigning weapons, adjusting shield projections, mounting additional armor, and tweaking thrust profiles are all a part of a standard rigging process. Most rigging is done in a drydock at a shipyard, though some adjustments can be made from within a starship during a space journey. The most dangerous type of rigging, often called “bootstrap rigging,” involves a ship crew making adjustments by performing a spacewalk before, after, or even during a battle or particularly hazardous navigational journey. 

Within the Republic, starship rigging is rather uncommon. Most Republic starship contractors build vessels intended for specialized roles. For example, a Republic fleet would employ a Star Destroyer to lay down heavy fire and a support frigate to handle point defenses. A merchant fleet would instead employ identical cargo vessels, each of them rigged to fill one of these roles. 


	18. The Secret History (Part IV: Opposite and Equal)

The normally drab halls of the galactic capitol building now seemed to glow, washed out in a swirl of white hot rage. 

Anakin Skywalker’s vision blurred at the edges, focused entirely on the ornate woodgrain door of the Executive Committee Room. He felt disconnected from his footsteps as he stormed toward the door. He heard a shout behind him—an administrative aide calling out. 

“He’s in a meeting!”

He was only vaguely aware of the reply he tossed over his shoulder: “I don’t care!” 

Then his mechanical palm was pressed against the woodgrain, simulated sensations rushing up the metal arm. He shoved inward, and it briefly occurred to him that this was one of the few doors in the building one could actually throw open. The rest just slid. He threw it aside and stepped across the threshold, bracing himself for a staredown with the chancellor and his entire Executive Committee. 

What he found instead should have been much less intimidating, but somehow wasn’t. The room’s massive conference table, meant to seat nearly two dozen people, was home to only two—plus a scattering of documents and a holoprojection of a nondescript cloaked individual. The door swung shut behind him—there was no undoing what he’d done, not anymore. 

“Anakin!” A startled shout from Palpatine was accompanied by the chancellor reaching for the holoprojector and switching it off. 

“Skywalker, what is wrong with you?” came another voice, this one underscored by the rustling of documents being hurriedly stuffed back into their folders. Anakin shifted his gaze from Palpatine to the room’s other occupant. Though he’d never met the man himself, the face was unmistakable.

“You can’t just barge in like that,” Wilhuff Tarkin snapped at him, his glare threatening to strike Anakin dead on the spot. The angles of his face, already sharp, in his irritation looked like they could chop wood.

Ignoring the other man—Anakin had faced far too much for a vampire’s mask to intimidate him—he turned back to face the chancellor. “Sir,” he managed, pausing to gasp for breath. “We need to talk. About Kuat Drive Yards.” 

Palpatine’s face fell. “Ah, you heard about that, did you?” 

“Yeah,” Anakin interrupted. “On the news.” The next sentence he had to fight the urge to swallow back, as though by saying it he was making it real. “Typhoon Division was there undergoing repairs. Not all of them made it out.”

“A catastrophe for the entire navy, yes,” snapped Tarkin, his sour expression curdling still further. “Not just your friends.”

Restraining himself from the sudden urge to punch Tarkin in the face with his mechanical hand, Anakin settled for throwing his arms open. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”   
Before Palpatine could answer, the director shot back, “Believe it or not, Skywalker, your new position does not entitle you to up-to-the-minute military intelligence reports.” 

_ I could say the same for you,  _ he almost snapped back, but then the significance of the director’s words crashed down on him. “My new position?”

“Director Tarkin was made aware of the generalities of your new work as my Executor, Anakin,” Palpatine said, holding out a hand in the young man’s direction. The unspoken directive was clear, written all over his face and the gesture he was making:  _ Calm down, son.  _ “We determined it was pertinent to his investigation.”

Anakin breathed in, then out again in a measured pattern, forcing himself to cool off. He needed to speak to Palpatine privately, to get rid of Tarkin—but yelling at him wouldn’t accomplish that.  _ Treat him like a mark,  _ a voice in his head reminded him.  _ Just like the old days. Use his words against him.  _

“Does the investigation entitle him to the specifics of Executor Vader’s operations?” Anakin asked, injecting a false earnestness into his voice while fighting the urge to sneer at Tarkin. 

“No,” Palpatine said. “No, it doesn’t.” Then, turning in his chair to face Tarkin: “Director, would you give us the room?” 

Tarkin said nothing, simply scooped up a pile of documents in a huff and brushed past Anakin on his way out of the room. As he passed, the young man could see his lip lift in the beginnings of a sneer.

As Anakin’s gaze followed the director out the door, he caught a glimpse of text printed on one folder. Though most of the text was obscured by Tarkin’s grip, a few words remained visible:  _ Report on the Investigation into Jedi Involvement— _

The door swung shut behind Tarkin, and Anakin turned to face the chancellor. Before he could open his mouth and ask about the documents Tarkin had been carrying, Palpatine spoke. 

“So, Kuat Drive Yards.” 

The frustration he’d just buried beneath the surface came rushing back, shoving aside his curiosity about the documents Tarkin had been carrying. Anakin shook his head and began pacing from one end of the lengthy conference table to the other. 

“It feels pointed, you know? Retaliatory. Vader attacks a shipyard, they attack a shipyard. What’s next?” He paused and stared out the window that ran along one wall of the conference room. “Will they burn down a bank? Blow up a BlasTech factory?” 

From the head of the table Palpatine chuckled, prompting Anakin to turn and shoot him a quizzical look.  _ This isn’t funny.  _

“My boy, you’re drawing connections where there are none.” He shook his head, intertwining his fingers and placing his elbows on the conference table. “The Confederacy is not a monolith anymore. Different groups hold the targets you’ve hit thus far, and therefore any counterattacks would need to come from different groups as well.” He leaned back in his chair. “Besides, we know who attacked Kuat. There were pirate vessels there, the same ones that hit Coruscant. Maul and Valis did this, and they’ve no reason to retaliate for Sluis Van. This isn’t vengeance, it’s just war.” 

It was a perfectly reasonable answer. One that left Anakin remarkably dissatisfied.

Palpatine must have seen it in his face; he sighed. “I am, of course, very sorry for the loss of your friends.”

The faces of a Twi’lek and a Bith flitted across Anakin’s mind. “I . . . I’m just glad it wasn’t worse, sir,” he said, thinking of Karin and Cody and Reyes and all the other souls who were stationed aboard the  _ Coelacanth _ . Who’d only just been recovering from the last catastrophe to strike them.

Palpatine reached out and took Anakin’s flesh hand within his own, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m so sorry. This can’t be an easy day for you, between this and the news about Amina.” 

`Anakin’s eyes widened, and he yanked his hand away from the Chancellor’s. “Amina? What about her?” 

“Oh dear, I assumed you’d already heard,” Palpatine said with a shake of his head—he looked a combination of embarrassed and ill. “Her squad commander said you often call to check in on her.” 

It was Anakin’s turn to look embarrassed. 

“She’s alive, don’t worry. But she is injured. Her troop transport crashed; most of the squad didn’t make it. She’s being pulled from field duty while she recovers.” 

_ She’s safe, then,  _ Anakin thought to himself.  _ That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? _

He threw himself into one of the chairs surrounding the conference table, running his flesh hand along his face.  _ You need to calm down. You won’t get anywhere flying off the handle.  _ “I just . . . I wish I’d been there,” he managed. “Maybe things would have gone differently.” 

At this, Palpatine sat up straight. “Interesting. I hadn’t planned on using your talents defensively, I’ll admit. We can’t know where they’ll attack next, and having you wait at one of our valuable holdings ‘just in case’ seems to me to be a waste of your time. But if you have ideas on how Kuat could have handled this better, I’m absolutely open to hearing them.”

For a moment the young man felt anger flare up yet again inside him. He almost barked that he wasn’t a  _ focus group _ , especially not where Roland and Shiiva were concerned. But as Palpatine looked at him expectantly, Anakin realized he was, in his own way, being kind.

In the same situation, Obi-Wan would have advised Anakin about the dangers of lashing out and said some things about those we love transforming into the Force. Palpatine was asking him for a concrete way to fix things.

“Okay, sure,” he said, nodding and blowing out a long exhalation. “We can go over it.” 

Palpatine leaned forward to the holoprojector controls mounted into the table and pressed a series of switches. First the window darkened, obscuring the Coruscant skyline outside. Then the lights dimmed. Finally, the projection of a nondescript hooded figure returned above the projector lens. 

The chancellor thumbed a button in the table—for a brief moment, the image changed to that of a floating city; a castle among the clouds. Anakin’s heart leapt into his throat—and before he could react the picture was gone, replaced by a projection of Kuat Drive Yards. 

“There we go,” Palpatine muttered to himself. Then, staring at Anakin through the projected image: “What would you have done differently?” 

The two sat there, bathed in the blue light of the projector, as Anakin simply stared. The massive ring that encircled Kuat was home to hundreds of Star Destroyers, each tagged with a tiny Aurebesh label. The names of the docked vessels. Anakin’s eyes were drawn to one in particular— _ Coelacanth.  _

“First off, the ships undergoing repairs shouldn’t have been exposed like that—we could learn something from Sluis Van, a groundside dock would be a pain but it would be a safer place for ships that can’t defend themselves. But since we can’t change that . . . turbolaser emplacements on the orbital ring would help. Rated gunners on them, not corporate security. And if we can spare them, leaving a whole division of the fleet at the main hyperspace entrance point would be good. Valis brought in a dozen ships, if we’d had a dozen of our own there and at the ready we could have cut them off before they even got to the planet.”

Palpatine nodded, but he was frowning thoughtfully. “For every action, there is its opposite, as they say. Balance in everything. If we remove a dozen ships from the main offensive line, we sacrifice one of our pressure points against the Confederacy.”

“Maybe half a dozen, then. Or we take a page out of Valis’s book, hire independent contractors. They’re not all bad, if you pay ‘em enough they’ll work for you as easily as the bad guys.”

“A practical solution. Though it is also currently against Kuat’s planetary law to bring contracted militia into their orbit.”

It wasn’t said as a rebuttal—Palpatine had put it almost wistfully, as though he wished more than anything that he could implement the suggestion. But Anakin gave a bitter half-laugh. His suspicion had been correct—Palpatine had already thought of all this. So had the navy and the shipyard, most likely. All this was was an attempt to make him feel useful.

His eyes wandered upward, from the table back to the projected faces of the battle’s casualties—trailing up to Shiiva and Roland. He stared at the flickering image of the shipyard and shook his head. “Forget it. Turn it off. It wouldn’t have mattered if I was there. A battle that big? One person can’t make a difference.”

Palpatine did as requested; as the holographic shipyard fizzled away, Anakin couldn’t help but see the ghostly image of the floating city that had preceded it.  _ One person can’t save them _ . 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the chancellor offered, leaning toward Anakin. “I’d think you of all people would know better.”

The young man sighed. “Sir, I appreciate your trying to cheer me up, but—”

”No, I’m serious, my boy! After all, your Jedi war stories teach a very different lesson.” 

Anakin barked a humorless laugh and leaned backwards in his chair, allowing it to spin slightly. “The Jedi don’t have war stories, sir. ‘Guardians of peace and justice,’ remember? It doesn’t fit their image.”

As his chair continued to spin on its axis, Palpatine came back into view—a look of genuine surprise was painted on the man’s face. 

“They never told you? History speaks of a great war between the Jedi and the Sith, several centuries ago.” 

Anakin put a foot down on the floor, stopping the chair from rotating any further. He sat up straight, eyes wide. “I never—” he said, trailing off before speaking again. “Does the Republic have record of this?” 

“In a manner of speaking. We  _ found  _ record of it.” Palpatine stopped, then leaned in before continuing. When he spoke, his voice was much lower. “You’ve heard of the expedition to Korriban?” 

Anakin nodded. “The  _ lost  _ expedition to Korriban. I didn’t realize they’d recovered any historical writings.” 

“Well, they didn’t exactly,” Palpatine said with a shrug. “Before they disappeared, most of their findings were merely transmitted via a holonet connection. But they did manage to send a single unmanned probe back. Contained within the probe was, among other things, a set of journals allegedly penned by an ancient Sith. 

“Most of the later contents are just grandiose philosophizing about the nature of the Force. Far beyond my interest or understanding. But the early pages of the journal contain a rather fascinating account of this war.”

Without realizing, Anakin had slid so far forward in his seat that he was nearly off the edge of it. He planted both elbows on the table and drew a deep breath, looking intensely at the chancellor. 

“I’d like to hear it.” 

* * *

Palpatine eased the door to the Executive Office shut, then brushed past Anakin, headed for the bookshelf that sat against one wall. Anakin took deliberate, measured steps in the other direction, until he found himself before a trio of bronze statues. Slightly larger than life, no doubt representative of some myth from the chancellor’s homeworld, the three men seemed to leer down at Anakin as he shuffled across the crimson carpet. Had they always looked like this?

“When the expedition disappeared, all records were sealed,” Palpatine called from across the room—a quick glance revealed he was dragging a pointed finger along the spines of the shelved books, searching for a specific title. “Determined too dangerous to be of any value to the academic community. But when your opponents declare themselves to be a coalition of pirates and Sith”—he paused, poking at one book before plucking it off the shelf—”you take the necessary steps to educate yourself. And I do still have my connections with the University of Theed.” He gestured with the bound book—a modern publication, by Anakin’s estimation. It resembled an encyclopedia more than the dusty leather codex he’d been expecting, binding still tight and pages crisply white. 

Palpatine peeled the book open, thumbing past several early pages before settling on one about a third of the way in. Even from a distance, Anakin could hear the sound of the man’s finger sliding across the slightly glossy paper. “The commentary is rather dull, I’m afraid. But pieces are worth reading.”

Anakin turned away from the chancellor, back toward the statues. The sensation of three great figures watching his every move made his stomach turn over. It felt akin to the times he’d smuggled liquor behind the shipping crates with his childhood friends, or that lone occasion where Padmé had slinked aboard the  _ Dancer  _ and extracted a vial of glitterstim from her belt. 

_ This is wrong.  _

Palpatine cleared his throat, drawing the young man’s attention back. Nothing more than an old man bent over a book. Instantly, Anakin felt silly—the only way the image could have been more innocuous would have been for the chancellor to put on reading glasses. “Ah, here we are.

“This is all taken from the supposed journals of a Sith Lord called Darth Plagueis.

“Over four hundred years ago, the orders of the Sith and Jedi were in the midst of total war. A conflict which spanned entire swaths of the Outer Rim. Plagueis writes of battlefields strewn with the armor of fallen Force warriors, their lightsabers littering the ground. It must have been a sight to behold.” 

Though the chancellor was moving, gliding across the floor as he skimmed the text, Anakin felt as though his feet were fixed to the carpet, turned to bronze like one of the statues. “I’m sure it was,” he managed, his voice a rough whisper. 

“The Sith were great in number then, and they had arrived at a pivotal point in the war: they were clawing at the borders of the Old Republic. Jedi territory. The moment they had been waiting for. A chance not to defend, but to truly attack. Only there was a problem. 

“Their numbers were great, but the Jedi Order’s numbers were greater. Plagueis, ever the studious one”—Palpatine paused, chuckling a bit at his own joke—”did a bit of arithmetic, so to speak, and made a sobering discovery.

“You see, each time the Sith and Jedi clashed on the battlefield, neither side escaped without great loss. The Dark Lords still considered this a victory. Their loss was a necessary sacrifice; the Jedi’s loss was a universal good.”

Anakin glanced from one side of the room to the other, from the door to the gaping window set behind the executive desk. There was no privacy, no secrecy. They were discussing this out in the open, and yet Palpatine spoke as calmly as though he were relaying old tales of his schooldays to his friend.

_ He has no idea, _ Anakin realized.  _ No idea that the Jedi don’t talk about these things. That they _

_ (hide them) _

_ never thought to mention them. _

“Plagueis came to realize that at the rate things were going, there was no way for the Order of the Sith Lords to win this war. They would push into Republic territory and be snuffed out by the Jedi, who outnumbered them. Yes, the Jedi Order would be dealt a crushing blow, but the Sith would be no more. He brought this to the attention of the Dark Lords. Plagueis urged them to retreat and regroup.”

A tense silence of anticipation lingered in the air. Anakin couldn’t bring himself to ask the obvious question:  _ Did they?  _

“They laughed him out of the room. Plagueis was but an acolyte at the time, a young student. He had no authority. The Sith, they told him, do not back down from a war. But Plagueis thought there was a bigger picture. The survival of his order was at stake. And so he returned to his quarters to develop a plan.”

At this, Palpatine paused. He moved to his desk, setting the book down—its face open, pages exposed to wandering eyes. Though Anakin would have loved nothing more than to glide across the room and pore over the writing, he didn’t get the chance. Palpatine’s eyes had fallen on him. 

“Tell me, Anakin. Did your Jedi ever teach the concept of balance in the Force, between light and dark?” 

Anakin had to fight to find his words, just as he had to fight off the sense of embarrassment flushing upward into his face. He didn’t want to sound ignorant and uninformed—but he couldn’t lie to Palpatine either. 

“No,” he began—then, realizing he could at least  _ try  _ to sound like he knew what he was talking about: “It was all about light overcoming the darkness.” At least, that was how Obi-Wan had put it, and Anakin knew his master too well to think he ever would have said something unorthodox on the subject.

He’d been kept in the dark too. Or else kept himself there.

“Plagueis had a different idea,” Palpatine said, sliding behind his desk and settling into his chair. He pulled the book along the desk’s surface so it sat before him, then gazed down at it. “He believed the Force to be a conscious actor with a will of its own. Always striving for a balance of light and dark.” He held up two open palms, shifting them up and down like a weighted scale. “Balance between Jedi and Sith. Not in number, but in  _ power. _ ” 

One hand dropped to the table as the other rose higher. “If the Jedi outnumbered the Sith, Plagueis believed”—the hands shifted to meet at an even level—”the Sith would be granted power to match the Jedi. And thus came his final plan. 

“He presented the Dark Lords with a new idea: a grand battle, an opportunity to kill thousands of Jedi Knights. Every single Sith would gather on the planet Malachor. Irresistible bait; an opportunity to end the war in one swift stroke. Winner take all. 

“Only it was a trap . . . for both sides. Plagueis was the only victor. He unleashed an ancient Sith weapon which decimated the entire battlefield, leaving him the sole survivor. Though the Jedi Order would live on in great numbers beyond that battle, the Sith would live on in  _ him _ —the balance of power in the Force making him as strong as every Jedi Knight put together. 

“To ensure the Sith would always be more powerful than the Jedi, he set forth with a new rule to guide them.” Palpatine paused, glancing down at the page and running his finger along it—he was reading directly from the text now. “ _ ‘The Sith shall number only two. No more, no less. One to embody power, the other to crave it: a master, and an apprentice.’ _ ” 

Anakin tried to gasp—his breath caught in his throat. “Maul and Valis.” 

The chancellor sat up straight at first, then leaned back in his chair. A slight chuckle escaped his mouth as he offered Anakin a shrug. “Indeed. It seems at least some of this tale is rooted in truth. Or our warlord friend believes it to be.”

He spread his hands, as if to signal that storytime had come to a close. “And so you see, my boy, sometimes one person  _ can _ make all the difference. It all comes down to whether one has the power—and knows how to use it.”

Anakin wasn’t paying attention anymore.

His mind flitted back to the first time he’d confronted Maul—he’d drawn on his own power then, but the Zabrak hadn’t died. And then again, on Serenno—three Jedi against them, and still the warlord and his apprentice had escaped. Had stayed untouched, this whole time. “If they’re as powerful as this suggests—” 

“Oh, come now. You know how these legends are, my boy.” Palpatine closed the book and shoved it aside, waving a dismissive hand. “They begin as a kernel of reality, but over time they are distorted. Half truths and exaggerations are added; perhaps even outright falsehoods. The  _ lesson _ is what’s important, nothing more. I’m sure Darth Plagueis existed; he may have even been instrumental in a major battle of this war. But whatever caused the Sith to dwindle from an order of thousands to an order of two . . .” 

He trailed off, turning in his chair to face the wall with the three bronze statues. “Well, something of that magnitude needs a good story to go with it, I suppose.” 

“The Sith are more powerful than we realized, sir,” Anakin said—he was perched on the edge of his chair now, putting forth a great effort not to sound like he was begging. A wild fear had gripped him. “Send me after them. Make them Vader’s next target.” 

Palpatine seemed like he was on the verge of rolling his eyes. “I don’t consider that a prudent use of your time or talents, son.” 

“But we have to stop them—” 

“No!”

The shout sucked the air out of the room, and Anakin slinked to the back of his seat even as Palpatine shot to his feet. The chancellor seemed to be the one looming over him now, palms planted on the great stone desk as he leaned forward. 

“No,” he repeated himself—quieter this time—before turning away to stare out the panoramic window upon the capital city. “There are more pressing matters to attend to. If I’d known you’d react this way . . .” Whatever reprimand he’d been on the verge of delivering faded away. “We have a clone problem.” 

“Here on Coruscant?” Anakin asked, inching up in his seat to peer around Palpatine into the view beyond. “I thought the Guard was working on that.” 

Palpatine shook his head. “Intelligence findings indicate Kamino is still creating them.” 

“Why?” 

“Does it matter?” the chancellor asked, throwing the words over his shoulder as he glanced back at Anakin. “They could be building an army for themselves, or for a prospective buyer. The reason is rather irrelevant. As long as someone can raise a fighting force of that size, the Republic will never be safe.” 

Turning back to his desk, Palpatine scooped the book up with one hand. He strolled across the office and back toward the bookshelf wall, speaking as he walked. “Your next assignment will be on Kamino, Executor Vader.” He bent down and slotted the book back in its place on the shelf, sliding it between its neighbors with a pointed, bony finger. “This is not an assignment of disruption or chaos; it is not Sluis Van or Muunilist.” Rising to his full height, he turned back to face Anakin. “You are to totally eradicate all cloning operations.”

Anakin could do nothing except nod. “Of course.” 

“Now, I try not to get too involved in the particulars of your work. You know this. Unfortunately there are some . . . wrinkles we must address. The reason you are to shut down the cloning facility yourself is because we cannot send in a follow-up attack. A fleet quickly and safely traversing the space outside Kamino—the so-called ‘Rishi Maze’—is all but impossible. A pilot of your skill, however, should be able to navigate it brilliantly in a smaller craft.”

“I’ll handle it, sir.” 

Now Palpatine was at his side, a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “I know you will, Anakin.”

But there was something in the words—in the way the chancellor’s shoulders slumped. Skepticism.

“That’s why I told you this story, my boy. One person can make a difference. This mission is entirely within your hands.

“All you have to do is ensure that you use your power the right way.”

_ And with your mind on the wrong things,  _ Anakin heard the unspoken coda echo in his head,  _ I don’t know that you can. _

He wanted to protest, but getting defensive now, trying to save face, would only make things worse. Instead, he simply said, “I’ll do my best, sir.”

With a fatherly smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes, Palpatine withdrew his hand. “I’ll see to it that all relevant intelligence is forwarded to your office aboard the  _ Arbiter _ . I’d like you to depart for Kamino by the end of the week.”

With a long sigh, Palpatine moved toward the office door. “I suggest you take some time to prepare.” 

* * *

_ You shouldn’t have interrupted him, _ Anakin thought to himself, grinding his mechanical hand’s fingers together with a squeak. There’d been a point there, something the chancellor was building toward, and as soon as Maul and Valis had crossed Anakin’s mind he’d run roughshod over it. He was still thinking about it too much—about what his old master had offered.

_ I think you are the person I know what stands the best chance. _

He’d apologize to Palpatine later. After the next mission. For now, he was convinced the answers he wanted didn’t lie in the chancellor’s office anyway.

Palpatine had been reading from an old document, a report on archaeological findings. He didn’t know any more than Anakin did—he’d said himself he’d simply read the report out of idel curiosity. The pair could have sat there for hours as Anakin grilled the chancellor with questions; it would have accomplished nothing. The truth lay elsewhere. 

It was why he’d set course for the Classical District. The home of the Jedi Temple, and within it his best friend.

There was something different about this place. Perhaps it was the abundance of foot traffic, the stonework bridges that formed pedestrian walkways between every home and storefront. Ancient masonry, much of it original—and any that wasn’t a meticulous replica of the period’s architecture—invited residents and tourists alike on a journey into Coruscant’s past. A time when stars were still visible from the surface. 

More than that, Anakin noticed, was the sudden sensory overload. Colors were more vibrant, sounds and smells more apparent. As the people strolled along the sidewalks, their steps carried more energy, their faces betrayed more happiness than a typical Coruscant resident. Anakin passed a caf shop just as a young couple opened the door to enter—the smell of the drinks and the baked goods wafted out, intertwined with the smooth tones of a lone Bith musician seated atop the café’s tiny stage. 

It felt like another world in all the best ways—and yet, he was too distracted to truly enjoy it. 

Anakin reached into his pocket again, obsessively checking his commlink for the umpteenth time since landing here. Obi-Wan had still not returned the call his old student had placed on the way over here—he’d expected as much, though he’d hoped for a different result. A call back would save him the trouble of a visit. Save him the awkwardness of asking the question that had distilled in his mind. It summed it all up. The story of the Jedi’s history with the Sith; of their war. Of Tarkin’s investigation— _ had Obi-Wan known more than he let on back in that apartment?  _ Of the nature of the Force. 

_ Why didn’t you tell me? _

He could see it now, at the end of the block—an unassuming facade, not out of place among the old world stylings of carved foundations and intricate glasswork windows. Aurebesh characters spelling out  _ Classical District Museum of Natural History  _ were affixed to the outer wall—and inside, all was dark. 

Barely stopping to look both ways, Anakin darted across the street to the museum’s entrance. Sure enough, a flimsiplast sign was taped to the door:  _ Closed for maintenance.  _

“No,” he whispered to himself, pressing his face against the window and shielding his eyes with one hand. “Come on, not today.” He squinted against the outside sunlight in an attempt to see if anyone was in the lobby. Lifting up his flesh hand and resting his knuckles against the transparisteel, he drew back to knock on the window—then froze, thinking better of it. 

He’d already drawn enough attention to himself as it was—he couldn’t help but feel the eyes of a few passers by staring at him. Stepping back from the window and offering one of them an apologetic grin, Anakin shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and shuffled away down the sidewalk. 

A moment later, he nearly stopped dead in his tracks. Had he  _ felt  _ the stares of the pedestrians on him as he was peering in the museum window? Surely not—it had to have been a gut instinct, nothing more. He’d long since cast aside the ability to sense other people like that. 

Hadn’t he? 

Anakin started moving again—faster this time, to put some distance between himself and the Jedi Temple. Whatever energy radiated from beneath that museum, he needed to rid himself of it. In an attempt to shove it aside, he mulled over the questions he would have asked Obi-Wan—in part rehearsing the conversation in his head, and in part hoping other ways to answer those questions would dawn on him. 

This mystery investigation into the Jedi, he thought, was something the chancellor would tell him more about when the time was right. He just had to catch him in a good mood.  _ Maybe after Kamino, when I’ve got good news to bring him _ . He frowned.  _ Then again, why hasn’t he already told me? If there’s something going on with the Jedi, shouldn’t he be consulting the only former Jedi he knows? _

The Jedi Order’s war with the Sith was a trickier matter. Palpatine had shared with him the only record the Republic had. If he wanted to know more, he’d need to ask a Jedi—and they seemed to be in vanishingly short supply these days. 

_ Is the dark side stronger?  _

Irrelevant, surely—he’d stripped away his connection to the Force altogether, so what did it matter if one side offered more power than the other? If “balance” was a thing that could be abused?

Still, the question gnawed at him. Again his mind flitted back to Maul and Valis—to the Jedi’s failure to defeat them, to Obi-Wan’s whispered admittance that he thought his old friend was the only one who could.

_ What if their dark is a match for any light thrown at it? _

At that, he came to another stop. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to smack himself. He’d overlooked such an obvious thing—his own experience on the matter. He’d done something many generations of Jedi never had. He’d faced Sith. He’d seen the light go up against the dark. He could answer this one himself. 

He found himself in one of the Classical District’s nature parks—an expanse of grass bisected by stone paths, shaded with trees that had once grown across the planet. Wandering until he came across a bench, he lowered himself onto it and began to think. 

_ It’s simple math, Skywalker. Think of the strongest display of light you’ve seen, and compare it to the strongest display of darkness.  _

Settling back into the bench, assuming a meditation pose he’d probably learned from Obi-Wan, he closed his eyes and exhaled. 

And saw it. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi, in a seated position on the floor of a warship bridge, an oasis of calm and peace as a hurricane of fire stormed around him. The Jedi had kept himself alive while a piece of burning wreckage had crashed onto a planet with nothing but the Force. Unscathed and unharmed, he’d walked away from an accident that had killed hundreds of other people. 

Then the image in his mind shifted. A city cradled by clouds, falling apart as the unstoppable force of gravity yanked it downward into a pressurized abyss. In the center of it all, on the steps of the palace, was a supernova of dark Force energy. An old man, fueled by hatred for everything that caused his home to crumble—and a young one, fueled by sheer terror that his wife and friends would die that day and fury at the world and at himself. 

_ Dooku’s darkness— _ our  _ darkness _ ,  _ kept a city in the sky. Saved people that the Jedi failed to save.  _

Then came the shockwave. It radiated out from Anakin like a rush of water in every direction, painting the world around him in a blanket of darkness. 

Shining against that darkness were strands of light connecting every living thing. Person to person, tree to tree, bird in the sky to squirrel darting along the ground. 

Every living thing, Anakin noticed—except for him. 

He was disconnected from the web of life and light that was the Force—and though this came as no surprise, he had never felt it as acutely as he felt it now. Tendrils of light extended from his body and drifted in the breeze, but there was nothing on the end of any one. Try as he might, each time he reached a shining strand toward another person, it shriveled away or shattered into a million shards. 

Then he noticed the strands emerging from every person and extending down into the ground. Down toward the Temple, toward the tree at the center of its courtyard. He could see through the park below him, through the stacks of buildings that made up the Classical District, and into the Jedi Temple. It glowed with a solar energy, countless strands of light winding through it—some of them so very familiar. The people above didn’t know it, but they were all connected by—and  _ to— _ the ancient arboreal nexus of Force energy as much as the Jedi below were. 

Anakin Skywalker, however, was as cut off as he could possibly be. The tendrils emerging from his body seemed to recoil from the tree of their own volition; no amount of effort could have connected him and the tree below. 

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Squeezing his eyes shut, Anakin made every effort to withdraw the tendrils of light back inside his body. It was the only way he could think to return the world to color, to block out this vision of his separation from the Force. 

It was the first time in two years he’d felt its presence. It was like someone had ripped out the stitches of a wound that had only begun to heal. 

He hoped to god he’d be able to sew it shut again. 

* * *

Anakin had no idea how he’d managed to make his way back to his airspeeder, but he had—like a blacked-out drunk finding their way home. The haunting afterimages of what he’d witnessed in the park were still burned inside his eyelids; he was afraid to even blink, lest he see it all again. 

As he eased his shaky body into the driver’s seat of the airspeeder, realization dawned on him. There was, it seemed, one good thing to come of his introspection.  _ Serenno _ . The place he put great effort into never thinking of had been exactly the place he needed to think of. 

Obi-Wan had never told him about this stain on the Jedi’s history, about their war with the Order of the Sith Lords—just as he’d not told him about the strength the dark side could bring on. Two people, though,  _ had  _ been honest about the nature of the Jedi. One had allowed him to openly speak about leaving; the other had himself left the Order too. 

Contacting Dooku out of the blue seemed risky at best. He doubted the Count would be happy to hear from him—not that Anakin blamed him. But Dooku’s former Jedi student was the next best thing. A recent scholar of Jedi history who had no problem facing the Order’s flaws head on. 

He swung the door of his airspeeder closed and reached a hand toward the vehicle’s built-in holocomm. Unlike the feeling that had plagued his gut as he’d tried to call Obi-Wan, Anakin felt a sense of genuine elation as he dialed in the frequency. It had been far too long since he’d spoken to Qui-Gon Jinn.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: REPORT ON THE INVESTIGATION INTO JEDI INVOLVEMENT IN THE WAR WITH THE CONFEDERACY OF INDEPENDENT SYSTEMS** _

_ [excerpt of a holonet news article discussing a document allegedly authored by the Office of Special Investigations] _

Though the Office of Special Investigations report is currently incomplete, the draft of the summary obtained by the  _ Coruscant Chronicle _ makes significant accusations about the state of the so-called “Clone Wars.” 

Treating the mythical Jedi Order as though their existence is fact, the report alleges that they were involved in the very genesis of the conflict with the Confederacy—and that the war’s “biggest missteps,” such as the now infamous Serenno Crisis, were “wholly and completely the fault of several Jedi.” The report makes reference to several individuals who could offer more information to the OSI, though the anonymous source who provided a draft of the report to the  _ Chronicle  _ redacted those names before transmitting it.

The report’s chief author, Wilhuff Tarkin of Eriadu, responded to the _Chronicle’_ s request for comment with the following message: “Though I cannot speak to the particulars of any supposed ongoing special investigations, I can assure the people of the Republic that any so-called allies who aided and abetted the enemy will be brought to swift justice.” 


	19. The Vanishing Point (Part IV: Opposite and Equal)

Predawn in the Works was a smear of grey, the first gleams of sunlight choked by smog and distant skyscrapers before they could hope to reach the street. To the ordinary pedestrian walking down the district’s artificial streets, or the speeder traffic hurtling by above their heads, the dun, hazy atmosphere was an annoyance at best and dangerous at worst, lowering visibility to levels that made accidents far more likely.

For Obi-Wan, it was a godsend. Unlike most here, he had a vested interest in not being seen.

Fortunately, at this early hour, even if visibility had been better he wasn’t likely to be noticed. Most businesses in the vicinity were still closed, including the one just across the street. The squat, one-story box of a building had no lights on, no sign flashing, no vehicles parked in the tiny lot just to one side. The sputtering streetlight closest to it cast just enough illumination to see the faded letters above the doorway: _Starfire_ _Diner._

The Jedi looked carefully in all directions, making sure no one passing by would notice a hooded figure approaching the entrance of a diner that wouldn’t be open for another hour. When sight revealed no one, he extended his perceptions only to arrive at the same conclusion. For the moment, he was alone.

In ten long strides, he crossed the street, taking one last furtive look behind him as he passed into the path of the acid-yellow streetlight. The diner’s front door was shut, opaque shades draped down the transparent panels. A sign—paper, not a holoscreen—hung in front of them, hand-lettered with an apologetic  _ We’re closed—but see you next time! _

Obi-Wan raised a fist and rapped his knuckle against the glass. Someone pulled the shades aside just enough to let a crack of light through, to get a glimpse of him—then, with a soft creak, they pulled the door open. The Jedi slid through the crack, door already starting to close as he passed over the threshold.

Before he could say anything, the breath was squeezed out of him from behind. With a  _ whuf _ , he extricated himself from the embrace as best he could, blinking hard in the sudden light, and turned around to greet Padmé face to face.

He was rewarded by a fierce glare. “You have a  _ lot _ of explaining to do, Kenobi.”

Despite himself, he chuckled. “I don’t suppose I’m worthy of an ‘I’m glad to see you’?”

“That’s what the hug was for.” She looked him up and down, the crease between her eyes deepening. “Gods, you look like shit.”

It was true—the aggressively cheerful interior lighting, Obi-Wan was sure, was doing no favors for the bedraggled cloak he hadn’t washed in several weeks, or the beard he hadn’t trimmed in a similar length of time. “Yes, well, I’ll get to that as part of the explaining. You look . . .”

“Haggard?” she asked grimly, brushing past him. “Yeah, got a lot on my mind lately, which you’re not helping with.” Sliding into the nearest booth, she waved him over and then turned her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Dex, he’s here.”

“In a minute, Obi-Wan!” a voice rumbled from the kitchen—the Jedi could just see a leathery arm wave in greeting through the window behind the dining counter. “How you want your eggs?”

Obi-Wan’s stomach made a sudden acrobatic maneuver—the beauty of that word after a diet of scrounged meals and ration packs was almost overwhelming. “Scrambled and plentiful, if you please, Dex,” he called back, doing his best not to sound overeager.

Turning back to Padmé, he scanned her up and down as best he could without trying to look it. She hadn’t been lying in her self-appraisal; her hair, while never mannered at the best of time, was positively unruly, and the dark marks under her eyes indicated that she’d been sleeping about as well as he had lately. When he reached out to touch her with the Force, there was the surface crackle of irritation that she always had when she was in a bad mood, but a far deeper exhaustion below. “What does Bail have you up to? I would imagine keeping an eye on him at the palace would be  _ less  _ work, not more.”

“Ah, ah, ah. Not safe for you to be a part of it, remember?”

_ Oh dear.  _ “Padmé, I assure you that I didn’t mean to hinder—”

She shook her head vehemently. “We’re here to talk about you, Kenobi. I’m not important.”

Whatever she had going on with Bail—and Obi-Wan had a fairly good idea of what that was—his ducking out of that call wasn’t why she was angry. Looking down at her neck, he saw the tiny square of wood that hung there by a leather thread.

“I can live with Anakin being angry with me,” he told her, lowering his voice. “But not both of you.”

Her hand instantly moved upward toward the pendant, only for her to jerk it back down to her lap. “Wait,” she asked, puzzlement blunting the sharpness of her voice, “what do you mean he’s—”

“Here we are,” said the rumbling voice as its bearer emerged from the kitchen. The diner’s Besalisk proprietor wore the same uniform he always did—a white shirt turned yellow with grease, half-heartedly covered by a black apron turned grey by the same. One of his four hands held a pot full of steaming caf, the other a plate covered with eggs and a fried meat that smelled so good Obi-Wan had no intention of asking what animal it came from.

Dex chuckled, the mustache-like filaments above his upper lip rippling with the motion. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten sick of the food, General.”

“Trust me,” replied the Jedi, beaming, “that couldn’t be further from the truth.” He let the space of a second pass after the plate was placed in front of him before he ripped a fork free from the tableware at his spot and plunged it into the mix.

“Sure I can’t get you anything, Padmé?” Dex asked, bending down to pour caf into her mug. “Not even some toast?”

She shook her head, her face carefully recomposed in the time it had taken the Besalisk to turn his attention to her. “I think I ate something bad yesterday—even smelling this one’s breakfast is a bit revolting.”

“Suit yourself. You mind sliding over?”

After Dex had worked his bulk into the booth—Padmé, scrunched against the wall, looked longsuffering—he folded all four of his hands and cleared his throat with a great burbling of phlegm. “So, Obi-Wan—you mind telling us what in the hell is going on?”

In between gobbled bites of egg, he told about the summons—carefully leaving out Anakin’s reaction. Then the interview itself. Before he’d gotten more than a couple questions in, Dex gave a laugh whose general sentiment could best be described as  _ You goddamn idiot.  _ “You’re telling me you got a summons from Palpatine’s government, about the battle that ended with a hole in the Senate dome, and you didn’t think to talk to a lawyer first?”

Against the Jedi’s better judgment, a smidgen of wounded pride worked its way into his answer. “Believe it or not, Dex, Jedi Barrister is not one of the divisions of the Order.”

“So just call up Thim! He got me out of that jam a few years back, he’s cheap—”

“Dex,” Padmé snapped, taking a fortifying swig of caf with one hand and rubbing at her temples with the other. “We’ve established that attorney-client privilege and Jedi don’t mix well together. Let him talk.”

As the narrative shifted from Anton Vargot and Ponce Held to Director Tarkin, Padmé frowned—her curiosity seemed to have gradually won over her desire to hold a grudge. “Wait, I’ve heard that name before. It feels like Bail might have mentioned him.”

“He struck me as very . . . motivated. But whatever it is he wants, it isn’t about Bail. Not directly, at least.”

And then he told them about how the trap had snapped shut.

“Son of a bitch,” Padmé hissed.

Dex’s normally jovial face had sunk into something more grim, his already beady eyes narrowing. “So what if this prick has photographs of you? They can’t prove you’re a Jedi just because you were at the scene of some wild story about objects moving around.”

“That doesn’t matter, Dex,” Obi-Wan replied. His stomach had begun to tighten, both from his hastily devoured breakfast and the return to thoughts he’d been brooding over for weeks now. “The fact that he’s asking is concern enough. We’ve known for ages that Palpatine doesn’t like the idea of the Jedi. And if the director of an investigation  _ he _ activated is more interested in trying to pin me to the Order than he is with an attack that almost toppled the capital—”

“—he sure as hell isn’t going to stop at just letting you walk,” Padmé finished. Color seemed to have drained out of her cheeks—her face was suddenly sallow, and she took a fortifying sip of caf. “So then what?”

_ Well, that about brings us to the present. _

He hadn’t been able to go back to his safehouse without being sure he wasn’t followed—contacting the Temple was even less of an option. So he’d gone to the place where people the galaxy over went when they didn’t want to be found. Renting a room in the Underworld had its advantages in stealth, but the compromise was . . . well, everything.

No shower. A single rad-oven for food, and a cheap mattress on the floor. A door whose four locks featured only two functional bolts. And no window, not that it mattered—down there it was always night.

Most importantly—or at the very least, most embarrassingly—no lightsaber. That was back at this safehouse, which he had to assume was compromised. The Order, even Knights, were trained not to rely on weapons—the Force was the most powerful tool they had, and a Jedi’s chief victory was not through attack. But the indignity of its absence had weighed on him all the same. Along with . . . everything else. More often than not, when he’d tried to meditate he’d found his mind churning with thoughts on the same few subjects.

Tarkin. The Order. Bail. Padmé. Anakin.

Palpatine.

“Of course, staying put wasn’t going to do me any good very much longer. So I contacted Dex asking to meet.” He turned his attention from Padmé to the Besalisk. “You told me that Padmé was on-planet. And here we are.”

Dex nodded, stroking at his mustache with one hand while another two drummed on the table absent-mindedly. “You don’t think you were followed here, do you?”

The Jedi shook his head, then, reluctantly, took a last bite of breakfast. “I have no way of being sure, but I don’t think they’d be expecting to pick up my trail here.”

“Well, that’s somethin’, then.” The Besalisk leaned forward, the table creaking ominously under his weight. “But you can’t go back home.”

Hearing another person say it that plainly filled Obi-Wan with a sudden sorrow, and beneath that almost terror—of course he’d gone over this time and again in his head, but for Dex to plainly state the case was for it to be made real. “Not for a long while, anyway. If I go back to my safehouse it will only be a matter of time before I’m tracked. And if I go back to the Temple . . .”

Padmé clapped her hands down on the table. “Right, well, good thing I’m here then. You can hitch a ride with me back to Alder—”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

When she opened her mouth to shout at him that of  _ course _ he could, Kenobi, the wave of affection that rose up inside him threatened to stop him from interrupting. “This investigation isn’t about me. I’m not nearly important enough. It’s about the Order.  _ Everyone _ is implicated—and that doesn’t just apply to Jedi, it applies to friends. If Tarkin’s people see me in your company while I’m on this planet, you become part of things.”

“It’s not exactly like we haven’t been publicly seen as friends, Kenobi,” she retorted, driving an elbow into Dex’s side with sudden vigor. As the Besalisk gave a  _ whuf _ of surprise, she took advantage of the extra few inches of space to draw herself up to her full height. “I’m already an associate of yours.”

“But not one who’s been seen helping me to evade a Republic investigation. And besides, I can guarantee you that in Palpatine’s circles you’re not thought of first and foremost as my associate.”

She snorted. “I guarantee I’m not ‘thought of’ in Palpatine’s circles at all. I’m Bail’s security guard, Obi-Wan.”

“Padmé . . . you’re Anakin’s wife.”

For a moment, she just looked at him. Then she sank back into the booth. Through the Force, Obi-Wan could feel her mind form a simple, calm  _ Oh. _

He knew what it felt like. Until recently, thinking of Anakin as Palpatine’s hadn’t come easily to him either.

* * *

Padmé had begun her day feeling wretched—the headache and nausea of a killer hangover even though she hadn’t had a proper drink in weeks, waking up in the dead of morning, and still dealing with time-lag adjusting from Alderaan to Coruscant. Now, the smell of her own caf was making her sick.

At least she had her side of the booth back to herself. After Anakin’s name had come up, Dex had promptly excused himself for a moment to get Obi-Wan’s dishes cleaned. “You know,” she called to the kitchen, “you have a droid for a reason.”

“Eh, her shift doesn’t start for another half an hour,” came the reply. “Let her get some sleep.”

“Droids,” she muttered to Obi-Wan. “If I’d started doing stuff for Liz she would have walked all over me.”

“Would have?”

A fresh wave of nausea hit her stomach, this one not born out of any physical ailment. “I thought you talked with Anakin. He didn’t—?”

The Jedi’s face flushed crimson, and he began an intense study of the tabletop beneath him. “I, ah . . . it didn’t come up. I imagine he didn’t want to talk about it.”

_ Plenty he  _ did _ want to talk about with you, though,  _ she almost shot back. Instead, she simply inhaled and let it go. “Yeah, well. Everyone lost something during the battle, I guess.”

“I’m so sorry. I—I’ll miss her, truly. Though I suppose she wouldn’t say the same for me.”

She managed a half-hearted snort. “She’d come to your funeral. Can’t guarantee what she’d say there.”

As the two of them sat in awkward silence, Padmé let her eyes wander over the joint in all its kitschy glory—the deco stylings that had been old-fashioned a century ago, all fins and chrome and bright reds. Anakin would have loved it. She could hear him now— _ Yeah, on the outside it’s a boxcar, but inside it’s a hot rod. Good food too.  _ He’d swap adventure stories with Dex, tease the droid server, ask if he could be of any help if something in the kitchen broke down. The place had  _ Skywalker _ written all over it.

She’d never taken him here. Maybe Obi-Wan had, back in the day, when the two men were practically joined at the hip—after all, it had been the Jedi who’d introduced her to the place, their first lunch post-Serenno. But she’d somehow wanted a place where she could just be her. Padmé Amidala, in a haunt all her own.

_ You’re Anakin’s  _ wife _. _

But she’d gotten used to  _ not _ being that here. Or back on Alderaan. Just like he’d gotten used to being  _ in Palpatine’s circles _ , going to dinners and meetings and liaisons she’d never even hear about.

They’d each formed their own spaces. And the ones where she was his wife and he was her husband had started to curdle.

With a longsuffering groan, Dex reemerged from the kitchen, towel slung over his shoulder. Padmé must have instinctively flinched further into the booth—he chuckled and waved a hand. “Don’t worry, Padmé, I’ll stand.” Placing two hands against his hips, he looked at Obi-Wan and said, “So, Obi-Wan. You’re not leaving with her. You can’t stay. Where  _ are _ you going?”

The Jedi threw a reflexive glance over his shoulder, as if to make sure no one was watching through the blackout curtains—it was an oddly funny motion from someone who could sense life forms with his eyes closed. “For now, I plan to find my own way offplanet. I can’t just stay holed up in the Underworld forever—if Tarkin is digging into other Jedi, I need to figure out what he’s up to. But in future . . . I might need a refresher on the services of that particular tailor you mentioned to me a while ago. Should worse come to worst.”

The smile had dwindled from the Besalisk’s eyes, but he nodded mock-sagely. “Ahh, I see. Just in case you need a . . . special garment made.”

Padmé rolled her eyes as viciously as possible. “Oh for gods’ sakes. Stop pretending you’re being subtle and just tell me before I ask.”

Dex chuckled, though again it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, way back in my Underworld days I fell in with this fella who specializes in . . . vanishing acts, shall we say. Oh, not a magician type—he couldn’t cheat at cards, much less do a card trick. And trust me, he tried the first one. No, his field is . . . people.”

_ Ahhh.  _ Memories of Junkfort came rushing back to her—Anakin had told her of a guy he’d met there once, a new arrival. Nobody came to live on Junkfort voluntarily, and he’d been curious as to why this poor son of a bitch had decided to move in.

The possibility hadn’t occurred to Padmé before now, but maybe Anakin had unconsciously used some Force persuasion to get the information he wanted. Or maybe the other guy had been desperate and lonely enough that he couldn’t keep secrets. Anyway, her husband had told her that his new acquaintance F—— actually wasn’t named F—— at all.

“I know how this goes,” she said aloud. “Someone screws up bad enough that they’ve got bounty hunters or cops hunting for ‘em, there’s no way to make it right, and they need to start over. So they find a forger and pay him, and he sets them up a whole new identity. New name, new home, enough money to get their feet back under them.”

Nodding, the Besalisk said, “Of course I never needed to use him myself—I’m too smart to end up needin’ him—but I’ve referred a friend or two, over the years. And hey, if ever the time comes when the law has it out for Dexter Jettster, he’ll know where to go.” He paused and stared off into the distance, as if he too were looking through the blackout curtains into the street beyond. “’Course, there are tradeoffs. You back out, you don’t get a do-over. And if you do it right, you can’t come back.”

“Wait,  _ what _ ?”

She was standing without any conscious memory of having risen, staring at her friend, who was once again making a painted study of the tabletop. “Dex,” she said, staring not at the Besalisk but at Obi-Wan, “what do you mean  _ can’t come back _ ?”

Dex waved his hands back and forth in an  _ I just work here _ gesture. “Like you said, this isn’t someone you go to if you’re trying to lay low on a petty larceny charge, Padmé. This is for when starting a new life is the only alternative to  _ losing _ one.”

Obi-Wan spoke up, raising his tired gaze to meet her stare. “It’s a last resort, Padmé. Of course I’m not seriously considering it  _ now _ . But . . . I’m finding it’s best to keep one’s options open lately.”

“Uh huh.” She turned to their host. “Dex, give us the room, would ya?”

Mumbling something noncommittal, the Besalisk slunk to the kitchen as quietly as his bulk would allow. A few moments later, a metal panel slid closed across the window.

“What the hell,” Padmé said. “I can’t—would you  _ look at me _ , Kenobi?” Because Obi-Wan was once again looking elsewhere—his eyes darting from piece to piece of their surroundings rather than settling on her eyes, a kind of nervous avoidance that was entirely unlike him. It wasn’t just embarrassment.  _ He’s hiding something. _

“Padmé,” he finally said softly. “It’s not something I’m considering lightly. At this point I’m hardly  _ considering _ it at all. But better to know about it now than to need it down the road and not be ready.”

“Why would you even need it?” she demanded. A whole host of emotions were bubbling just under her skin, things she wanted nothing more than to flash-boil away entirely. She didn’t have  _ time _ for this, gods damn it, she was on Coruscant for a purpose. “What do you think Palpatine’s gonna do even if they bring you in? Being a Jedi isn’t illegal.”

A wistful, bitter smile flitted across his face. “Padmé, you’ve been the most suspicious of Palpatine of any of us ever since he took power. What do  _ you _ think he’ll do?”

_ I have no idea,  _ she realized.  _ None at all.  _ Because all this time she’d just kept it in her head that the Jedi would always stay a rumor. A secret. She’d considered Palpatine taking over the government. She’d never considered him going after the Order.

“Palpatine listens to Anakin,” she found herself saying. “He’s like a son to him. If Anakin puts in a good word, maybe this whole thing can go away—”

“When I spoke to him,” the Jedi cut across her. “When I asked him—” His eyes landed on the pendant at her neck, then returned to her face. “I’d already gotten the summons. When I mentioned the investigation to him, he hadn’t heard about it.”

She started to speak, then forcefully closed her mouth as she realized what she’d been about to say.

_ That can’t be right. _

There were two options. Either Palpatine hadn’t informed Anakin of the fact that he’d launched an investigation that was heavily interested in his former best friend—or Padmé’s protest was correct, and Anakin was lying.

Obi-Wan’s eyes, red from tiredness, ached with the same sentiment. Padmé realized he could feel her realizing the same thing he’d had plenty of time to mull over.

“If he didn’t know,” the Jedi said, “then Palpatine is keeping things from him. And if he did know . . .”

“I can’t believe that,” she said, putting enough blustering conviction into her voice that she knew it sounded like the most hollow denial possible. “He loves you, Obi-Wan. You know that.”

“I do.” And the unspoken corollary:  _ But that doesn’t mean I know his intentions. _

Padmé gripped at her mug of caf, letting the cheap ceramic form a tie between her and the concrete reality of where she sat. The liquid was just warm enough still to affect her hand. “So that’s it, then,” she said, keeping her eyes locked on him. She wasn’t going to do him the favor of blinking. “You don’t know if you can trust Anakin. And that means you don’t know if you can trust his wife.”

“Padmé,” he protested, his voice rising in alarm, “this isn’t  _ about _ you—”

“You’re right, Kenobi,” she replied, rising from the booth. “None of this has been. You ask Anakin to rejoin the Jedi alone, you dodge contact when I ask for your help, and now instead of letting me help you you’re considering just going into gods-damned  _ exile _ if you can’t handle things yourself. This is all about you and him.”

“It’s about the future of the Jedi Order—”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, you try to save them from Palpatine your way, and I’ll try to save them mine.”

Now Obi-Wan was standing as well, moving to block her path to the door. “Padmé, wait. What are you doing here on Coruscant, what aren’t you—”

“We all have our secrets, Kenobi. And evidently we’re all keeping them close.”

She could see how much she was hurting him. And she knew how bitterly she was going to regret this the moment she left the diner. But damn it, the fact that she had the power to hurt something felt  _ good _ right now.

“Good luck keeping your head down,” she said, and shoved past him.

When she hauled the diner’s front door open, early-morning sunlight spilled in. She strode out into it, leaving the Jedi behind.

* * *

“You listened to all that, I suppose,” Obi-Wan said.

He didn’t really hear Dex’s protests—his mind was still on the conversation that had just transpired. On Padmé’s face before she’d stormed out.

_ Good luck keeping your head down. _

He remembered those days not so long ago when he’d had to sneak out of the Temple to escape Cin Drallig’s lockdown. How even now the Jedi were cloistered away from the planet, venturing out only rarely, still suffering from lingering paranoia on all fronts. Barris and her friend asking if the Jedi could blame those who believed in their existence for distrusting them.

How could he blame Padmé now, if all he was going to do was run away?

The fixer was a last resort—he hadn’t been lying there. But keeping his head buried in the Underworld wasn’t doing any good either. Nor would leaving the planet only to take immediate refuge in another hidey-hole.

_ You’re a Jedi. Your job is to make things better. _

_ Get into some trouble. _

He turned to Dex. “Get me the information on the fixer, but what I really need right now is a transport offplanet. Something incognito, reliable.”

The Besalisk was already leaning behind the counter to grab a datapad. “Arranging safe travel shouldn’t take too long. You might have to bunk in back depending on whether or not the ship has some travel time between its current position and Coruscant.”

“Trust me, that will be a luxury compared to what I’ve been dealing with.” He ran a finger through his mustache, laying out his priorities. “Too risky to go back for my lightsaber, I’m sure they’ll know my address now if they didn’t before. And I’ll have to wait to contact the Temple until I’ve left Coruscant space, but once that’s happened I’ll need to let them know I’m all right.”

A low chuckle. “You mean they couldn’t— _ sense it _ ?”

“Sensing that I’m alive and sensing that I’m all right are two different matters.” He’d been doing his best to send out the latter into the Force, but direct communication across the planet was . . . unlikely.

His eyes fell on Padmé’s abandoned mug of caf. “Dex, do you know what she’s doing here?”

Shaking his head, the diner’s proprietor reached down to pick up the mug. “I only knew she was on-planet because she stopped here yesterday for lunch, just after she arrived. Mentioned to her that you’d be comin’ through.”

Whatever it was, he’d sensed enough to know she was very much on edge about it—and she wouldn’t be staying long after her business was concluded. “Whatever it is, I do hope she makes it back to Alderaan safe. If that’s even where she’s going.”

With Padmé, one could never tell.

* * *

She shouldn’t have gone at all. Now she was late, and she was  _ still _ feeling sick—the sunlight pounded against her head like something physical.

Her commlink chimed. Growling wordlessly, she flipped it open to see a text-only message from the reason she was here in the first place.  _ Thought you said bright and early. _

“Oh screw you,” she muttered to herself, then tapped back a response.  _ Got held up in the Works. On my way to the Classical District now. _

_ Don’t bother,  _ came through a few moments later.  _ I’ll come to you. I have a general sense of where you are. _

“Yeah, I’ll bet you do, you bastard.”  _ Fine. Will stay put. _

Well, that wasn’t true. She had to get at least a block further down, out of sight of the diner. Wouldn’t do to have a secret rendezvous this close to her last one.

_ You’d better know what you’re doing, Amidala,  _ she thought to herself, raising a hand to her face to cut the glare. A speeder whooshed by, ozone reek trailing behind it.

_ Because Kenobi sure doesn’t. _

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: WE LOST ANOTHER ONE** _

_ [excerpt from a Corellian Security Force inter-department message, from the desk of Detective Mari Watts] _

Look, I know the captain thinks I’m being lazy, inventing excuses so I can quit working on this case and get back in the field. But you have to believe me, I am not making this up. It’s not even the first time it’s happened. 

The suspect just disappeared, Alvar. Gone without a trace. One minute she exists, the next it’s like she died. Except she didn’t. No death certificate, no record of a hospital visit or a will left with a next of kin. Someone else is living in her house, her stuff is gone . . . I just don’t get it. How can two suspects vanish on me like that in the same year? 

I know it sounds crazy, but someone has to be helping these people disappear. Setting them up with new papers, slipping them offworld in a shipping container or some shit. I don’t know. I thought that kind of stuff only happened in the Outer Rim. I need your help on this one. We’re not going to get anywhere tracking down these people. They’re like ghosts now. We’ve gotta find the guy who’s actually making them vanish. 

Just don’t tell the boss, okay? 


	20. Matters of Research (Part IV: Opposite and Equal)

“You know,” Qui-Gon said, “when you first asked me on one of these little expeditions, I thought to myself, ‘Ahh, here’s a chance to make myself useful. Just use the Force and call them right to the boat!’” She leaned back against the stern of the boat, wincing a little as the curve of the wood dug into her back. “Only to find that fish are too stupid for that sort of thing to work on them.”

Her companion, though he held himself in careful concentration as he hovered his spear over the water, chuckled. “If it’s to be weak-minded, it has to have a mind to begin with.”

It was a beautiful day—the rainy season was due to begin soon, but you’d never know it looking at the sky, only a few lonely clouds floating in the higher reaches. Lor had asked her if she wanted to come with him while they had the chance—she’d almost protested, but then thought ahead to week-long storms cooping her up inside and decided to make the most of the offer. Now, smelling salt-laced air and listening to the water’s motion rock the boat back and forth, she was glad she had.

From the bow, there was a sudden burst of motion as the spear darted down into the waves—when it emerged, a wriggling set of scales nearly two feet long sprouted from the end. With a grunt of satisfaction, her companion slid the catch off the weapon and into a bucket, then jabbed down quickly at the head. “Just goes to show you,” he said, lowering himself back into the boat and looking over at his passenger. “Sometimes crude matter is the best tool for the job.”

_ Crude matter,  _ Qui-Gon thought, was a good way to sum up Lor San Tekka in general. He was young—a good ten years younger than her at least, and she suspected more than that—but already his entire self had seemed to cure, skin gone tough and hair bleached into ivory. He looked most at home weaving a net or making repairs to a structure that had been pecked at by salt and moisture and sand, or doing what he was now, turning life to meat. She liked him for the same reasons she liked most everyone in the settlement—he was solid, patient, reliable, like a good walking stick.

It was that quiet tenacity that had restored the old lighthouse. Unearthed the ruins further inland. Built a new home around the pieces that had been left behind thousands of years ago.

That was why she’d been welcomed so immediately upon her arrival. After all this time, the village had told her, it was like the Jedi finally coming home again.

And what a homecoming  _ that _ had been—she’d arrived at the peak of last year’s rainy season, and almost crashed her ship into the bay for her trouble. Looking over at Lor preparing to skewer another catch, she suppressed a snort at the image of him doing the same thing to fish her out of the water.

“I may move some of the things from the lighthouse into my home before the rain hits, if it’s all the same to you,” she said aloud to Lor. “I don’t mind occasionally getting wet on my way to study things, but in general I’d prefer saving myself some trips.”

The young man shrugged, then lowered his spear and raised a hand to his eyes to chance a look at the sun hanging in the sky. “This would be the week for it. Not my place to say—have to ask the elders. But I think they’ll say yes.” The straight line of his mouth curved in the suggestion of a smile. “After all, Jedi relics are meant for Jedi Knights. They’ll do you more good than they’d do any of us sitting in there.”

“Not a Knight,” she corrected automatically, a bit harsher than she’d meant. “Not anymore.”

He shrugged, lowering himself into the boat and turning his attention to the gently pulsing water. “But still a Jedi.”

Qui-Gon craned her neck to look over her companion—Lor stood a good foot taller than her, and didn’t sit so much as loom. Past him was the shore, the lighthouse a distant pillar atop the jutting cliff that rose from the sand. And past that, she knew, though she couldn’t see it—the village. The cluster of buildings, with their few hundred inhabitants, which had welcomed her with open arms when she touched down here a year ago. Not for who she was, but for who she represented.

_ It’s like the Jedi finally coming home again. _

“You know, I’m glad it took me so long to track this place down,” she told Lor, fidgeting to work the kink out of her back. “That no one else came knocking. And sometimes when you talk like that, it makes me wish even I hadn’t.”

Lor’s brow didn’t furrow so much as slightly deepen the crevasse that already ran across it. “Madame Jinn?”

“ _ Qui-Gon _ , Lor, please.” Right there was the reason. “Your village has been here for thousands of years. I just showed up . . .  _ yesterday _ , as far as you’re concerned. Nothing gives me any more insight into this place than you. You’ve been taking care of it all this time. I’m just . . .”  _ A tourist, _ she finished in her head, thinking back to what Dooku had said to her those weeks ago.

“And in all this time,” he told her, picking up the spear and waving it idly to punctuate the point, “none of us have been able to do what truly matters. Touch th—”

“Yes, yes,” she said, sending out a dart of mental energy to brush the spearpoint from getting too close, “the Force. And a lot of good it’s done me, wandering the ruins waiting for something to happen.”

Lor simply sat there, his stony face still betraying confusion. Finally, Qui-Gon looked off to watch the sun glint against the water and sighed. “I’m sorry. This was meant to be relaxing. Then I bowl everything over.”  _ Again. _

“If you’d like to help me relax, you could always try summoning a few fish again.”

Smiling despite herself, she crooked a finger of her right hand—a moment later, Lor cried out as the butt of his spear rapped sharply against his head. “I suppose it has done me  _ some _ good,” Qui-Gon conceded, crossing her arms and leaning back. “You’re lucky I’m not inclined to tip the boat over.”

“I’d enjoy watching you try to swim back to shore,” Lor retorted, rubbing at his forehead.

Closing her eyes, Qui-Gon let herself focus on the warmth of the sun on her face and the lapping of waves at the wood beneath her. Really, this kind of self-absorption wouldn’t do.  _ You’re with a friend, and he’s catching dinner, and that’s all. Be in the moment. _

_ You used to be good at that. _

* * *

_ Crackling scarlet. _

_ A spiderweb of dark, spreading its strands outward to every point of light across the galaxy. _

_ A whisper, one formed by silences:  _ Take up the burden, in this twilight hour.

* * *

Qui-Gon opened her eyes.

It wasn’t a twilight hour at all—judging by the shadows that enveloped her room, it was early morning, sunrise still some time off. And she wasn’t watching the galaxy from some bird’s-eye view—she was here, in bed, sheets a reassuringly scratchy presence against her skin.

From behind, something wrapped around her, then clutched a white hand against her brown one. “You had a dream.”

It wasn’t a question. “Did I wake you?”

A faint rustle indicated a shaking head. “I was awake. You mumble, sometimes.”

“ _ God, _ ” she muttered, wrinkling her nose at the taste of her own sour breath, “this is why I should have stayed a free agent. You get them in bed and you lose all your mystique.”

Rolling over, she touched her lips against alabaster skin, feeling the resistance of the cheekbone underneath. “I did wake you. Sorry.”

Jesmyn turned their head, brushed their own lips against Qui-Gon’s, a faint taste of anise mingling with the morning staleness. “Nothing to be sorry for. And stop changing the subject.”

“Sneaky little thing you are.” She rolled back over to stare up at the ceiling, a crumpled dome of stone. In the dark, it looked almost like an inky ocean whose waves broke above her head. “It was . . . nothing. Or something, but vague enough to be good  _ as _ nothing.”

“But it was the Force.” Again, not a question.

“You can tell all that just from what I mumble, hmm?” She’d been hoping for a perfunctory chuckle from the Arkanian, but when none came she sighed and replied, “Yes. It was. For all the good that does. The last time I had one of those, it wound up sticking me with a limp.”

Jesmyn gnawed at their lip, the glint of their eyes just visible through the predawn shadow. It still made Qui-Gon’s heart stir a little, seeing concern there—from the wrong person it might come off as pity, but that was something she knew the Arkanian had never felt for her. Not even Obi-Wan could say that much. “You would . . . tell me, if you knew it meant something bad, yes?”

_ Of course it’s bad. Who’s being sent  _ good _ premonitions, these days?  _ Aloud, she hesitated before replying, “If I thought I could do something about it.”

A surprisingly firm hand planted itself against her shoulder—Jesmyn pushed themselves upright and looked down at the Jedi, their hair falling to brush against her forehead. “Well, you’re the person here who can do the most about it by default, whether you’ve a limp or not.”

“I liked you better when you were kissing me. It’s too early for arguments.”

“And you’re going to have to learn that flirting like an adolescent only distracts me for so long.” They said it as faux-casually as Qui-Gon had, but the Jedi could detect the bones of genuine frustration beneath the words.

Reaching up with her free hand, the Jedi placed it against the back of Jesmyn’s head. Felt the hair that ran from it like silk. Pushed down gently. “You’re not the only one who can apply leverage, dear.”

When the kiss had broken apart, Jesmyn kept their body atop hers. The base of Qui-Gon’s spine twitched the beginnings of a warning, but the assurance of the weight overrode any discomfort. It was warm, tangible,  _ present _ —the opposite of whatever it was the Force had been teasing her with.

_ Ugh, _ there it was again, sneaking back into her thoughts precisely because of the distraction she was trying to provide herself. Reminding her that she did owe the person currently blanketing her an explanation. “I talked with Lor when we were fishing yesterday. He was of the same opinion you are. That I’ve got a leg up on everyone here simply by virtue of being a Jedi.” Careful not to test any stiff muscles, she carefully let her own leg wrap around the back of Jesmyn’s, nestled between their calves and the bedding. “A few weeks ago, I talked to . . . a friend.”  _ Best not to mention Dooku in front of them. At least not this early in the morning.  _ “They wondered if I wasn’t letting my connection to the Order hobble me. I think I’m starting to wonder the same thing.”

The Arkanian spoke into the pillow beneath Qui-Gon’s head. “And you chose a Jedi archaeological dig as your place to wonder. Sensible.”

“That’s just it, though,” she sighed, thinking back to her talk with Lor. “When I left the Temple—left active service—to go on this exploration, I thought digging into the Order’s past might help me to know where we went wrong. But the past is . . . well, it’s the past here. Dead.”  _ Dead as the tree in that damn lighthouse,  _ she thought to herself. “Lor’s people have been waiting all this time for us to come back, and now that I have I sit in an old building and  _ meditate _ all day and wait for relics to tell me something. Give me a miracle cure for what ails us.”

With a groan, Jesmyn rolled back to their side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling just as Qui-Gon did. “So you want to leave. Go back to heroics. Fight off the Sith and hope the third time’s the charm.”

The way they said it—the declarative thud of the sentences, the flat affect as they looked anywhere but  _ at _ her—it sounded like something they’d asked themselves before this. As if they’d pictured Qui-Gon once again limping into battle with a freshly made cane courtesy of Qlik and the Temple. Leaving them alone.

“Actually,” the Jedi replied, “I was thinking of . . . staying.”

When she let her head fall to the left, her bedmate’s had whipped right to hold her gaze. The light from the outside was brighter now, enough that Qui-Gon could make out the contours of their face, the hollows of their eyes gone wider with surprise. “But not as a Jedi?”

“There are so many things to do here, Jesmyn. Heal those who get hurt . . . bring in enough food to keep the settlement running . . . just  _ live. _ And there’s only one thing here that requires me to be a Jedi. The thing I’ve been failing at for a year.”

A furrow split the Arkanian’s perfect brow. “I suppose . . . I’d just assumed you wanted to get back out there. Lately whenever you’re not killing time, you’re mucking about with the ship and checking for messages and . . . looking other places.”

_ Oh _ no _. _

In an instant, the vestiges of slumber that had still lingered around her awareness vanished. “The ship, I  _ knew _ I forgot something.”

She felt a wave of confusion emanate from Jesmyn, who shot upright an instant after Qui-Gon did. “What are you talking about?”

The Jedi was already pushing herself out of bed, reaching for the robe she’d left on the floor. “I was in the cockpit checking the comm unit yesterday and the weather was so nice I kept it open.  _ Left _ it open.”

“ _ And? _ ”

“If any flyers get in there again, they might make off with something important. Damage the comm” Stupid, so  _ stupid _ , she’d been sitting in there poking at buttons and doing nothing and somehow hadn’t even remembered to  _ close _ the damn thing—

“If you think we should stay,” Jesmyn asked, “then what do you care about the comm unit?”

They were actually mad now, Qui-Gon knew. It always came out in that sharpness in their voice—rather than lapsing back into their natural accent, they heightened their annunciation, made every syllable come out flawlessly. The Jedi had joked with them more than once that they must have gotten very angry with whoever it was that had taught them Basic.

“Someone might try to call sometime,” she replied, shoving on her shoes and grimacing as her heels caught on the backs. “And I don’t want them thinking I’m dead.”

Not that anyone  _ did _ try to call, really. Obi-Wan here and there, though nothing lately. But—

Jesmyn stared long and hard at her as she finished her frantic routine of getting dressed. Finally, in one deliberate motion, the Arkanian slid back down into the sheets and turned their head to face the far wall. “I’m going back to bed,” they said, in a tone that indicated they were far too irritated to do anything of the sort. “Wake me up when you want to actually finish the conversation.”

She could have apologized. Kicked off the shoes, slid back under the sheets, held them. But now that the image of flyers rooting around at the controls, ripping out wiring, had lodged itself in her mind, she had a fear coursing through her that she knew she wouldn’t be able to suppress until the job was done.

_ They’re not right,  _ she thought to herself as she headed for the door.  _ I don’t want any more adventures. It’s just . . . _

_ It’s best to keep one’s options open. Wasn’t that what Dooku was saying, multiple paths and all that? _

Had he been there, he would have chided her for putting words in his mouth. But he wasn’t, and she was already striding outside.

* * *

There was a small garage of sorts next to the dwelling, designed to house one of the few ancient speeders the villagers had managed to keep in working order, but even the relatively small ship Qui-Gon and Jesmyn had brought here was too big for it. Instead it stood alongside the structure, making a mountain range out of the tarp that covered it. Imperfectly—the edge of one engine nacelle visibly protruded from beneath the covering, a faint speckling of rust forming on the metal. And the cockpit remained perfectly open to the elements, as Qui-Gon had left it yesterday.

_ Idiot, _ she thought to herself as she mounted the small ladder leading to it.  _ Were you really so distracted that you didn’t think what could happen if it rained? _

It hadn’t, though when she looked out at the sea it was no longer one expanse of blue meeting another. Across the distant hints of sunrise far offshore, grey was roiling—still a long way out, but moving. The clouds would hit the village soon, even if the storms held off for a bit longer.

_ It’ll keep the flyers away, anyway.  _ The other bane of the ship’s existence lo these last dry months—reptilians that sought out metal deposits in the stone, until her ship had come along and given them a much tastier target. Harmless enough to living beings, but she’d already had to have Jesmyn repair the damn thing last time after the creatures had chewed hell out of it, and she was in no mood for that to happen again.

Sliding into the pilot’s chair, she let her eyes roam over the interior in a brisk scan. Not much to inspect, fortunately—the two-seater was bigger than the one Bail had given her all those years ago but not by much, to the point that she and Jesmyn had risked getting sick of each other while traveling inside. Two leather chairs, the instrument board, and then the back wall and the door that led to the sadistically tiny refresher unit.

Absolutely ridiculous for her to feel any nostalgia for the thing. It had been an inconvenient necessity, to be used and then abandoned as soon as they arrived at their destination. But Jesmyn wasn’t  _ entirely _ wrong. She  _ had _ been coming back to check on it more and more often lately—and while sometimes it was to look for any new messages, or make sure everything was still in optimal condition, sometimes—like yesterday—it had simply been to . . . sit. For an hour or so. Lie back in the seat with her eyes closed, hands wrapped around the control yoke, feeling the wind across her face—never mind the fact that there  _ was _ no breeze in space.

_ They’re right, you know, _ she told herself, looking back out to the bay, the water growing dark in the distance as the clouds cast their long shadow over it.  _ If you really mean it, you should just lock this thing up and walk away. Give the key to Jesmyn so if ever they end up getting bored of you they can leave. _

Something niggled at her as she had the thought—annoyed, she pushed back at her mind, trying to reclaim her attention span.  _ You need to  _ think _ about this, damn it, not push it off for a distraction yet  _ again _ — _

Then she realized, it wasn’t her own head. It was the Force, clearer than it had been in a  _ long _ while.

_ Time to wake up _ , it seemed to be saying.  _ You’re not alone. _

She wondered what on earth  _ that _ could mean—it wasn’t Jesmyn, she would have sensed them—but then she looked down at the instrument panel and realized. The ship’s comm unit was blinking a staccato burst of red light.

Frantic disbelief overcame her for a moment. She’d  _ never _ actually received a call in person in all the time she’d been here—unless she counted her one talk with Dooku. She and Obi-Wan would fire messages back and forth, and Qlik would drop the occasional line with an update on Temple business, but it was easy to lose one’s sense of time here—even if she’d wanted to talk to someone in real time, she’d have had no idea how to arrange it. For someone to call now, at a time when she would never normally be out here—

_ Maybe I’ve misjudged you after all,  _ she thought to the Force, and punched at the comm unit.

“Hello?”

“ _ Qui-Gon? Hey, is that you? _ ”

The signal was weak, patches of static corrupting the message, but she knew the voice—heavier than it had been the last time they spoke, and older, but still the same. “I— _ Anakin?  _ My god, how are you?”

When he replied, it seemed hearing her say his name had rejuvenated something in him—she could hear a trace of the old Skywalker grin around the words. “ _ How am  _ I _? How are you? How’s unraveling the secrets of the universe? _ ”

A snort escaped her. “I do hope I didn’t make it sound as grandiose as all that when I left. I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment if I did—I’m a homebody now, really.” She didn’t think she’d sounded too sad, but just in case she added a firmly cheerful, “I’m glad to hear the clones couldn’t kill you! Not that there was ever any doubt, but still. Old friends’ voices are reassuring to hear these days.”

“ _ Tell me about it. _ ” She could tell he meant it, but through the static she wondered if the cheeriness in his own voice hadn’t dipped down into a deliberate register. A moment later, he added, “ _ So seriously, no mysteries or adventures or anything? You know I’m not the person to be modest with. _ ”

“Some very enthralling architecture, anyway,” she said. “The Jedi may not have left Aquilae much, but they did leave it some fine museum pieces.”

“ _ Aquilae? _ ” His frown carried over the comm line. “ _ I haven’t heard of that system. _ ”

“You wouldn’t have. I had to spend those years cooped up in the Temple researching  _ some _ thing, after all. This was one of the main ones. Jesmyn and I spent a year sorting out the rest of the clues after Serenno. Made a hyperspace jump, crossed our fingers . . . wound up here. Ancient outpost of the pre-Republic Jedi. Now gathering rust.”

She didn’t think she’d said anything particularly outrageous, but there was a barely perceptible intake of breath from the other end of the line. “ _ Wait, pre-Republic? _ ”

At this, she chuckled. She could picture Dooku now, one of his muttered harangues from back in the old days—there was no sense of  _ history _ left in the Jedi, if one wasn’t a Scholar they knew as much about the Order’s past as any credulous citizen plucked off the street. “The Republic’s pretty new, all things considered. A thousand years on a galactic timescale . . . not very long. We were around long before that.”

There was a long silence; Qui-Gon could picture Anakin’s expression, that look of punch-drunk wonder he always got when someone told him an assumption he’d long held wasn’t true. The Jedi suppressed another chuckle—he’d always looked a little like a lost dog when that happened. Finally, he said, “ _ You know, it’s funny. When I was still . . . when I was in the Order, there were so many things I didn’t think to ask. Questions I didn’t even know  _ were _ questions. And now even though I’m not in the club anymore, I keep finding out new things. _ ”

_ You and I both,  _ she thought, looking out at the bay. The sun had begun to poke through the distant clouds with a bit more force, a few holes in the grey burning at the edges with orange and pink. She could make out the distant pillar that was the old lighthouse against the new illumination, standing stoic for the latest day in a line that stretched back so far as to be innumerable. “Well,” she murmured, fancying to herself that she could see things becoming clearer by the second as more and more sun strained against the mass of dun, “that’s the way of things. Even things that happened a few centuries ago get harder and harder to dig up. It’s a big galaxy.”

One of the reasons she’d been so keen on making her way here. The idea of a Jedi outpost stretching back to the old times, preserved in amber by those who’d failed to note its place on a map . . .  _ Things could be so different there,  _ she’d thought.  _ Maybe they won’t have lost their way.  _ But of course amber didn’t preserve everything.

When Anakin spoke again, he was curiously quiet. “ _ Yeah. There’s things that went on just . . . four hundred years ago that I never knew about. That I don’t think even Obi-Wan knew about. _ ”

Qui-Gon frowned.

If there was one thing the Anakin she’d known didn’t do, it was beat around the bush. He was direct to a fault, to a degree that she knew had caused Obi-Wan endless grief. And yet whatever question lay behind this admission, he was afraid to ask her.

_ You haven’t been talking to Dooku, have you?  _ she almost asked as the absurd notion popped into her head. Immediately, she stopped herself. Touching the raw wound of Serenno wasn’t something Anakin would have done, she didn’t think—besides which, there was very little chance Dooku would have wanted to speak to  _ him _ either. But if it wasn’t him . . .

She’d been silent too long, she realized, as the young man called her name with some alarm. “I’m here, I’m here,” she reassured him, turning back to the comm and forcing herself to look at its blinking indicator light.  _ Focus. The Force steered you here for a reason—it wants you to help him. _

“What things,” she asked, “might those be?”

“ _ Did you know the Jedi fought wars? _ ”

_ Ah. _

She answered back with her usual level of glib circumlocution—of course the Clone Wars weren’t our first time, hard to exist for a few thousand years without getting your hair mussed. But as her tongue danced on its own, her mind was furiously processing where he could have heard about this.

The Order didn’t talk about it. The standard texts glossed over the matter. It was an antipresence, a gaping black hole in their coverage of the Jedi’s recent history.

An all-out war against the Sith. One that had left bodies from both sides strewn across the outer reaches. One that had only ended because the Sith had burned themselves out like a flame devouring all oxygen within reach.

One the Jedi had failed entirely to resolve.

Again, she was tempted to ask if he’d been speaking with Dooku. But she held herself back.  _ You’re here to help, so help. Don’t shut down on him. _

“ _ I was doing some reading, _ ” he told her. “ _ Taking after you, I guess. And I came across this . . . this journal about what happened. About how things would have pushed into the Republic and turned it into a galactic war. _ ”

“We are good at that, I suppose. Just look at how Had Abbadon turned out.”

He was quiet for a moment; then, “ _ Look, you know what I’m talking about, right? _ ”

There it was.

Qui-Gon threw a glance over her shoulder back at her home, as though worried that someone might be listening in—like she and Anakin were sitting together in the Temple library, and Madame Nu was just around a corner. “I do, yes. Is that why you’re calling?”

“ _ I mean, no, I—I did want to just check in on you. But . . . I was thinking you might know someone who’s looked into the whole thing. Especially the end of it. Malachor. Darth Plagueis. _ ”

“I— _ who? _ ”

A gull startled and flew away, shrieking—Qui-Gon winced, wishing she could somehow take the loud hiss she’d made and smother it.

“ _ The one who ended it. That’s what . . . what I read, anyway. _ ”

It was at that moment that she almost brought things to an end. Almost panicked and demanded that he tell her who he’d been talking to.

The version of this history that she’d been privy to had been from one of Dooku’s old books—one of the titles he’d gotten in trouble for assigning her to read.  _ A Chronicle of the Something-or-Other,  _ very dull material—save for the chapter that had dealt with the great hole in the record. The closest Jedi and Sith had ever come to revealing themselves out in the open—hundreds of combatants on battlefields, engagements happening across the outer territories, lightsaber-slashed corpses strewn in a bloody trail across the galaxy.

And then, it had stopped. On a distant world called Malachor—one that, as far as Qui-Gon knew, had not been inhabited before or since.

This much the histories said. They said nothing of a Darth Plagueis.

The Jedi swallowed, willing saliva to wet her suddenly dry throat, but no moisture came. Suppressing a cough, she said aloud, “I have to say, Anakin, I’m impressed at the level of research you’ve put into this. Darth Plagueis . . . it’s not a commonly known name.”

She expected him to hem and haw a little before dropping the front. Telling her where he’d heard the name. Instead, he asked, “ _ So it’s true, then? The war ended in a battle on Malachor? _ ”

There was an eagerness there that she didn’t like at all.

So much, in fact, that she chose to be stupid. “Anakin, I have to ask—where  _ did _ you dig all this up?”

His response was so quick that even looking for hesitation she wasn’t able to spot it—he was too excited to pause, to try to come up with an explanation. Instead he barreled right past her question. “ _ And what do you think about the theory he had? About . . . balancing the Force? _ ”

Plagueis she’d never heard of.  _ That _ concept . . . well.

“The last I heard of it,” she replied, clutching her robe tighter around herself as a sudden salt breeze whistled in from the coast like numbing fingers, “it wasn’t a Sith theory at all. It was a mutual acquaintance of ours, in fact.”

“ _ Obi-W—? _ ” He cut himself off before he could finish the name, then corrected himself in a tight murmur. “ _ Dooku. _ ”

She nodded, rolled her eyes when she remembered he wouldn’t see that. “Toward the end of his time with the Jedi, when he was looking more and more into other schools of thought, he told me he thought the Order had grown too strong. Too spread out. In fact”—she chuckled here, forced in the moment but born of genuine amusement—“I believe he lectured me about it around the time I was beginning my cover job with Interplanetary Outreach.”

Closing her eyes she could see the memory now—the two of them strolling through Capitol Plaza, the Senate looming behind her master.  _ Powerful light implies powerful darkness,  _ he’d told her, cape fluttering in the morning breeze.  _ The brightest light casts the darkest shadow. The more we attempt to burrow into every crack of the Republic, the more we fill the way behind us with murk. _

_ I always hated metaphors,  _ she’d shot back, smirking and tossing a stray coil of hair away from her face in that jaunty way he’d always associated with impertinence.  _ The dark side isn’t going to suddenly smash down on the Republic because I took a job, Master. _

_ You’re arrogant indeed, if you think the balance between light and dark rests on  _ you _ , Madame Jinn, _ he’d replied, in a tone so withering she’d had to laugh.

He’d always hated that—the professor in him didn’t take to dismissal. But this once, he’d eventually given a low chuckle in return.

_ I’m going to miss you, you know,  _ she’d said.  _ Being a Knight  _ and _ working in politics . . . it doesn’t leave much time for socializing. Promise you’ll have tea for me if I want to drop by your office? _

_ Always. _

For a while they’d simply wandered in silence, boots gently clacking against cobblestone. Then, his tone stern again without warning, her master had added,  _ The Order of the past shone brightly, Qui-Gon—but it did not seek to burn the dark out entirely, to fill the galaxy with itself. If your glow becomes a flame, the darkness that countermands it will burn as well. _

She’d felt a pang in the Force then—a deep foreboding echoing outward and into her skin. Not her own worry, but his.  _ So by fighting those who use the dark side for evil, we only make them stronger. _

_ Fighting them? No. But seeking power upon power to do so . . .  _ He’d sighed then, and stared off toward the distant Senate dome.  _ Forgive me. You don’t want to hear this. _

It had been his way of changing the subject, and she’d let him. And for years she hadn’t thought of it at all.

Then a Sith had nearly killed her. Ever since, the dark side’s power had been . . . a pressing concern.

“ _ Qui-Gon? _ ”

With an echo of Dooku’s remembered sigh, she spoke. “Sorry. Yes, the notion of light and dark constantly balancing each other out, the Force as an arms race of sorts . . . it’s not unheard of. Especially in times like these, when the Jedi for all our reach can’t finish off the enemy. Grow too powerful, and all you do is multiply your enemies. If one side grows too strong, the other will meet them—light or dark, Jedi or Sith.”

“ _ Multiply . . . but the Sith haven’t. There’s only two. If this theory were true, wouldn’t they be spread throughout the galaxy too? _ ”

“If the only kind of power is the kind that the Jedi have achieved. But I doubt Dooku would say numbers are the only kind of power.”

Nor, she was quite sure, did Anakin think this.

In the distance, she could make out a trio of gulls silhouetted against the sunrise as it finally crested the clouds. Their distant calls echoed back on the breeze, mindless and hungry.

Qui-Gon shivered.

After a long silence, he spoke again. “ _ I wish you were closer. Or . . . _ ” Whatever possibility he’d been about to suggest trailed off. “ _ I’m gonna have to look into things myself, I guess. There’s just so much going on lately . . . _ ”

A flame leapt in her chest, compelling obedience. Qui-Gon opened her mouth and, before she was aware of what she was saying, replied, “Oh Anakin Skywalker, if you really think I’m going to let you attempt reading  _ books _ on your own we’ve been apart too long.”

After a moment, he exploded into surprised laughter, as if it were taken aback by its own existence. “ _ Excuse me? _ ”

“Research has never been your strong suit, we both know that.” It was easy, all of a sudden—she wasn’t choosing the words, just letting them flow, a cheerful smile on her face and leaking into her voice. “And I’ve got nothing  _ but _ time here. If you want someone to tell you more about Malachor and old wars, I think the choice is obvious. After all, you did call me.”

Finally, when he replied to her she seemed to have broken through any pretense; he sounded almost sheepish as he said, “ _ It wasn’t just about that. Really. _ ”

“Oh, you don’t fool me.”

“ _ You’re  _ sure  _ you want to do that. _ ”

“Pssh. You’ll save me from boredom. Jesmyn is going out of their skull with how bad I’ve been lately.” She chuckled, wondering what they would say if they saw her sitting in a cockpit talking to no one at the crack of dawn. “Maybe I could even take a vacation there, give them a break.”

“ _ That would . . . hey, if you do that, swing by the Core systems. Say hi sometime. _ ”

“It has been  _ far _ too long since I saw you. Or Obi-Wan. Or Padmé, for that matter.”

The hiss of static on the other end lasted just a second too long before Anakin said, “ _ Yeah, that’d be great. _ ”

Quickly as it had risen within her, the flame was beginning to die. “Look, Anakin,” she said, “I should probably be going. But it’s been lovely. I don’t hear too much from anyone out here. I promise I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“ _ Thanks, Qui-Gon. Seriously, _ ” he said, in what sounded like relief.

_ May the Force be with you, _ she almost said; and then, “Bye for now.”

As soon as the line clicked off, she sagged.

_ Trust the Force to nudge you into making an impossible promise. _

Something had nudged her out here, and that same something had steered their conversation toward the end. Ignoring that would be pointless. But . . .

_ You called me here,  _ she said, doing her best not to gesticulate at the empty air as she argued with it.  _ You don’t want me to just leave when I can help the people here, I know that much. So why send me on a wild goose chase to some other planet, after a war that ended centuries ago? _

No response. The only sensations she received were the cold of the air and the lapping of distant water.

“Well, you’re a great help,” she muttered aloud. “I’ll just keep meditating on it then. See if I can dig up the name ‘Darth Plagueis’ in the archives. Try to get my partner not to be angry with me. Thanks very much for the help on that front.”

The childishness made her ashamed even as she spoke. But she didn’t take it back.

_ Say one thing for Anakin. When he gets you to agree to something, generally there’s a concrete goal at the end of it. _

_ Not that you  _ have _ agreed to anything. Beyond research. _

She sneered at her own insistence, and clambered down from the ship.

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: GEOGECKO** _

_ Gekko geometallusis,  _ more commonly known as the “geogecko,” is a species of reptile found across much of the western Wild Space and Outer Rim regions. The native planet of the geogecko is not known; it is speculated they were first spread across the galaxy by “hitchhiking” aboard an exploratory vessel. 

Their natural diet consists of metal deposits found within a planet’s rock formations—though they are more notorious for feeding on sentient constructs such as buildings and starships. The color of a geogecko changes based on the metal they consume; this has the added benefit of allowing them to blend into whatever structure they have chosen to feed on. 

Though its eggs are incredibly resilient, and the lizards themselves can go dormant in low nutrient environments, the geogecko is not considered an invasive species by most settled worlds due to its incredibly slow rate of reproduction. However, vessels with geogecko infestations are typically not permitted to dock on worlds with active mining operations. 

Despite common misconception, geogeckos cannot fly. The webbed membrane connecting their limbs is only useful for gliding short distances and quickly moving through water. 


	21. Job to Do (Part IV: Opposite and Equal)

Even the dungeons on Alderaan were beautiful. 

This wasn’t a real dungeon, of course—the royal palace’s had been phased out millennia ago, if they ever existed. This was merely a subterranean conference room, one that had become the headquarters for Bail and Breha’s secret alliance in recent weeks. The room had been carved into the ground; the natural rock that made up the walls felt as though the ocean had worn it smooth over a thousand years. Vines grew along most of the perimeter—in the spaces where they didn’t, ornate carvings depicting Alderaanian landscapes adorned the stone. One would have been forgiven for thinking the light was natural—flickering candles set into frosted glass globes, rather than harsh artificial lamps, illuminated the space’s four occupants. 

Padmé had been the one to nickname it “the dungeon,” after one of many sessions of Breha and Bail droning on about government business and the ways their legislative contacts could assist the alliance. As the latest of these dragged past the hour mark, her fingertips rapped against the tabletop in a rolling sequence, one after the other, over and over—loud enough to keep her mind occupied, quiet enough not to draw attention.

Another source of distraction was less welcome—as it frequently had in recent weeks, her stomach was flipping over on itself, the remains of what little breakfast she’d eaten grinding against its walls.

_ That _ was something she needed out of her mind even more than this meeting. Something she would deal with later. If later ever came.

“On to matters of the war, then,” came a voice from the far end of the lengthy oak table—the change in who was speaking was enough to snap Padmé out of her lull.  _ Somehow her voice sounds even more regal in here _ , she thought as she half-turned her focus to Mon Mothma. The senator sat with a stack of documents before her, auburn hair shining in the candlelight glow. 

“I just received this intelligence report,” Mon continued, gesturing to the stack of papers. “I won’t bother reading you the whole thing—most of it is redacted anyway.” Even from afar, Padmé could make out several thick black lines streaking across the pages as the senator thumbed through them. “Palpatine has just seen fit to inform all Senate committees of a new”—she paused, trailing off and glancing at one wall as if searching for the right words—“operative. One who is separate from the Grand Army. He won’t receive orders from the Defense Committee, or the Senate’s Intelligence Director. He is to report directly to the Office of the Chancellor.”

_ Finally,  _ something interesting was going on. 

When no one spoke, Mon continued. “His task, as Palpatine put it, will be strategic and precise disruption on the battlefront. An agent who softens targets before the Grand Army is sent in to finish them off.” 

“Is this even legal?” Bail asked—his brow was furrowed, his hands wrung against each other atop the conference table. 

“It is if no one stops him,” Padmé said, speaking in a detached monotone as she stared down at the table. Yet another instance of the entire Senate sitting back and watching as Palpatine just . . . _did_ something, the unspoken invitation to challenge his actions lingering in the air. 

No one ever did.

For a moment, she let herself roll the idea of this operative over in her mind. A hand of the chancellor, taking care of the dirty work no one else would. Taking the fight to the enemy in secret, acting swiftly and decisively with no to tell them otherwise.

Looking at the table of “rebels” who’d spent their every waking hour since the siege of Coruscant inquiring in committee about where they should go next, she had to admit the idea had a certain charm.

Breha, who sat at the table’s head, leaned forward with an open hand. “It’s alright. Thank you, Senator, for bringing this to our attention. We’ll plan to track this operative’s movements just as we track the Grand Army’s.” 

Padmé’s mind wandered to the image of yet another parchment map burning on the conference table. Evidence of their alliance couldn’t exist outside this room—but it was critical that they track the war effort as closely as possible. The constant fear that Palpatine would turn the Grand Army against them cast a shadow over every meeting—on more than one occasion they had drawn up the Army’s latest positions on a physical map of the galaxy, committed it to memory, then lit it on fire. 

“That’s just the problem,” Mon Mothma said with a shake of her head. “We can’t. He’s anonymous—or operating under a false name, at least. Palpatine only referred to him as ‘Executor Vader.’ He also made it quite clear: for security reasons, as well as the safety of this Executor, reports will be handled differently than reports on the Grand Army’s movements. He intends to inform the Defense Committee of the operative’s actions only  _ after  _ they’ve occurred—not before. I don’t see a way to stay ahead of what he’s doing.”

Before Padmé could stop it, a bark of laughter escaped her mouth—though she quickly clamped down on it. She felt three pairs of eyes come to glare at her—glancing at each of them in turn, she offered an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny.” She turned and locked her eyes on Bail. “It just sounds an awful lot like how you and Obi-Wan used to operate.” 

Bail’s eyes widened, and he rose up in his chair. “Padmé, that was  _ not  _ the same thing!” 

“But it was close enough,” Breha interrupted, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. “And perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. If someone were to mention this connection to Palpatine, he may reconsider.” 

Mon Mothma leaned forward and planted her elbows on the table, resting her chin against steepled hands. “You may have a point, Your Highness. I doubt he wants to do anything that reminds the public of the Had Abbadon incident.” 

A scoff escaped Bail’s lips. “Sounds like a great way to get added to Executor Vader’s hit list.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Bail.” The scolding voice came from the head of the table—the queen was leaning to one side, narrowed eyes pointed squarely at her husband. “He’s a battlefield operative, not Palpatine’s personal assassin.”

“How do you know?” he snapped back. “If he kills someone, we won’t find out until after the job is done. We were worried about Palpatine turning the Grand Army on his political enemies”—Bail let himself trail off, shaking his head and jabbing a finger down onto the table. “No. This is how he’d take care of anyone who opposed him.” 

Breha turned to the other senator in the room. “This can’t have been a popular decision,” she began. “Do you know of any committee members who opposed it?” 

“If someone did, they kept it to themselves,” Mon answered, glancing down into her lap. 

“As more people find out, surely someone will speak up,” Breha said. “Maybe we need to leak this. To the public, to the press . . . even just to the Senate. Once the whole Senate knows, someone could try to stop this.” 

At this, Mon Mothma snapped to attention. “There aren’t that many copies of this in the wild.” She gestured to the stack of papers in front of her. “It wouldn’t take Palpatine long to figure out who let the news slip.” 

“Are you people listening to yourselves?” 

All eyes were on Padmé again—even she was surprised at the disdain that had laced her voice, the volume with which she’d chosen to scold two senators and a queen. None of them looked angry—something she thanked the gods for—and as the silence in the room grew longer, Padmé took it as an invitation to continue. 

“You’re talking about using legislative procedure to stop the chancellor from sending his anonymous personal vigilante across the galaxy. Palpatine’s not playing by the same rules we are. He’s not even playing the same game. And for that matter, why should he  _ want _ to use this Vader to assassinate any of us? We’ve sat here doing nothing besides getting a few politicians to  _ maybe  _ agree to  _ limited action _ if it’s  _ under the right conditions. _ We might as well have written Palpatine a note saying ‘Don’t worry, we’ll stay out of your way.’”

Breha bit down on her lip, as if fighting a sudden urge to laugh. Bail looked like she’d slapped him. Even Mon flushed.

_ Okay, Amidala,  _ she told herself,  _ you had your little fit. Now get down to business before you lose them. _

She paused and shook her head, spreading her arms wide to indicate the entire room. “This whole thing was conceived as a two-pronged approach. We work through legal avenues, but fight if we have to. I think it’s time we get on his level.” She turned to look at Mon Mothma. “May I?” 

Mon gestured at her with an open hand and leaned back in her chair. “By all means.” 

Sitting up straight and clearing her throat, Padmé continued. “Ever since Obi-Wan declined to join our little insurrection, I was tasked with finding us another ally within the Jedi Order.” Though the room’s three occupants seemed to bristle at the word  _ insurrection _ —Padmé noticed a wince flash across Bail’s face—no one interrupted her. 

Reaching down to her belt, she withdrew a commlink and raised it to her lips. “Raymus, send him in.” 

The conference room door opened, and a hooded individual slinked into the dungeon. As his hands rose to lower the hood, candlelight reflected off the smooth dome of his head. 

“Absolutely not!” Bail shouted, leaping to his feet and jabbing a finger in the new arrival’s direction. “He is not welcome here.” 

“Bail!” Breha snapped, nearly rising to a standing position herself. “Sit back down.” 

Bail whirled to face his wife. “Breha, he was with us on Naboo—”

“Then I don’t want to know,” the queen interrupted, holding up an open palm at Bail. With a huff, the senator slumped back into his seat. 

Gritting her teeth, Padmé shot an apologetic look at their guest—the Jedi, seemingly unfazed by the harsh welcome, merely shrugged. “This is Jedi Knight Mace Windu,” she began, gesturing in his direction. “Mace, this is Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila and Breha Organa, Queen of Alderaan.” She paused to swallow a lump in her throat. “You already know Bail, of course.” 

“Welcome,” Breha offered with a slow nod. “Have a seat.” 

“I’ll stand, thanks,” Mace replied. “This won’t take long.”

Padmé watched as the Jedi gazed at each member of the room in turn—Bail, she noticed, earned the shortest glance. Mace stared at her the longest.

“Amidala tells me you’ve formed an alliance to stop Palpatine’s legislative agenda. To oppose him in the Senate. Remove him from office, if you can gather the support.” 

It wasn’t a question, but he let it linger like one, hanging in the air with the subterranean dampness and candle smoke. Finally, Mon Mothma answered. “That’s right.” 

“I’m here to tell you that it won’t work.”

Bail looked barely on the verge of rolling his eyes, but the Jedi spoke implacably, as if they were discussing not opinions but inevitabilities. “Palpatine has spent his career collecting allies in the Senate, cultivating favor with the courts. You’ll never see him removed, and even if you do he’ll never face any sort of legal consequences. I have . . .” He hesitated, as if weighing how to explain it to the new faces in the room, then gave a rolling shrug. “A gift of the Force. It lets me see breaking points. Palpatine’s isn’t in the law.” 

“You have a better idea?” Bail asked through clenched teeth—the senator sat as far back as his chair would allow, arms crossed over his chest like a defiant child. Padmé supposed she couldn’t blame him, considering how their last partnership with the Jedi had gone.

_ You asked for this,  _ she did her best to think at her assembled conspirators.

Mace looked Bail up and down, meeting his contempt with a singular lack of concern. When he replied, his voice was an even as ever. “I do,” he said with a single sharp nod. “It’s simple, really.

“Assassinate him.” 

Padmé drew a sharp breath through her nose.

Breha remained steady, keeping whatever reaction she undoubtedly felt beneath the surface. A glance over at Mon Mothma revealed a vaguely shaky senator gone pale—it reminded Padmé of the only time she’d ever cursed in front of her mother. 

Bail was back on his feet—rather predictably, Padmé thought, making his feelings toward Mace Windu known to all. 

“Are you insane?” he snapped at the Jedi. 

“He will weasel his way out of any traditional attempt to unseat him,” Mace said, raising his shoulder in a fraction of a shrug. “You have to realize this. I did, two years ago. I should have acted on it then. I’m not making that mistake again.” 

“Tell me,” Bail began, pressing a palm against the table and leaning in Mace’s direction, “is this really what the Jedi Order believes to be the best course of action?” 

Mace leveled a glare at the senator. “It’s what  _ I _ believe to be the best course of action.” 

“That’s what I thought.” He rounded on Padmé, disbelief mingled with an almost childish look of hurt. “You approve of this?”

_ I didn’t know that’s where this was going,  _ she almost said, but then bit down on her tongue. She wasn’t going to make a liar out of herself just to placate her boss’s feelings. She’d known as soon as she’d had the idea of bringing Windu here what he would say.

“I don’t have to approve or disapprove,” she replied, holding the senator’s eyes with hers and matching the Jedi’s granite intonation as best she could. “He’s presenting a strategy. Something that’s been in short supply around here lately.”

“We’re done here.” Glowering, Bail raised a pointed finger toward the conference room door and addressed the Jedi while continuing to stare at Padmé. “Get out.” 

“I see how it is,” Mace said with a slow shake of his head. “When it comes to starting wars, you’ll break the rules for the greater good. You’re just too scared to do it when it’s time to end them.” 

“Out!” 

Windu did as instructed, whirling around and striding through the door in a single motion. As it creaked shut behind him, the entire room seemed to relax around Padmé—but all she could see was their last connection to the Jedi Order drifting away from them.

She glanced at Mon Mothma—the senator was gathering her stack of documents as the candlelight flickered, keeping her eyes averted from the rest of the table—then at Breha, and finally at Bail. Her boss had slumped back in his chair, looking exhausted and upset. 

She could sort things out with him later. Weather a tongue-lashing for doing exactly what she’d been asked to do. Right now, she had a Jedi to catch.

Leaping to her feet, she bolted for the door before anyone could stop her. She was out in the hall in an instant, her eyes darting back and forth to see which way Mace had gone. 

Luckily, he hadn’t made it far—the Jedi was meandering down the corridor, hood up, hands in the pockets of his robe. 

“Wait!” she hollered, jogging after Mace until she was just behind him. “Mace, wait up.” 

He turned to face her, but said nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” she said after a protracted silence, offering him a shrug. “I guess I thought that would go better.”

“Really?” he asked, a raised eyebrow barely visible beneath his low hood. “Or is that exactly how you thought it would go?” 

“Don’t do that,” she hissed through her teeth, thinking of the few times she’d caught Obi-Wan or Anakin snooping around in her head. But her mind wasn’t swimming with the warmth that usually accompanied a mental intrusion, the wooden medallion around her neck wasn’t pulsing with the energy of the Force. 

“I’m not doing anything.” Mace shrugged. “I could just tell by the look on your face. You thought it was over the second I walked in there.” 

She exhaled sharply through her nose, the closest thing to a laugh she could manage right now. “It  _ was  _ over the second you walked in there. Bail wants nothing to do with you.” 

“And you had to have expected that,” he cut in. 

It certainly felt like Mace was reading her mind. Of course she had known Bail would bristle at the mere sight of Mace Windu. She’d hoped that Mon and Breha would act as tempering influences, calming Bail long enough to at least hear what the Jedi had to say. 

She’d also hoped, despite her intuition, that he wouldn’t go straight for the most extreme option.  _ We could have at least worked our way up to it. _

“You’re good at one thing, Windu,” she said aloud, “and that’s pissing people off. I guess I hoped you’d push them in a productive direction when that happened.”

It didn’t matter now. What was done was done—Mace Windu wasn’t going to be their Jedi liaison, and their alliance wasn’t going to assassinate Palpatine. 

“He doesn’t deserve you, you know,” the Jedi said.

Padmé frowned—had he just paid her an unambiguous  _ compliment _ ?

Once again, through mind-reading or otherwise, he got the drift. With a single smirking chuckle, Windu said, “Just stating a fact.”

Padmé sighed and reached a hand up to rub the back of her neck, wincing at the sudden ache that had arisen there. “What are you going to do now?” 

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. 

Her thoughts turned to Obi-Wan again—his quick exit from their holocall all those weeks ago, and the way they’d both danced around things back in Dex’s diner. He’d recused himself from this venture not because he didn’t support it, but because it was dangerous for him to participate in it. In this moment, it was in her best interest to take a cue from her old Jedi friend. 

“No,” she said, the word leaving her mouth as part of an exhausted breath. “No, I guess it’s best if I don’t. It’s not like I can help you.” 

The Jedi Knight nodded at her and, accompanied by a whirling cloak, turned to stroll away down the hall. Before he was out of earshot, Padmé spoke again. 

“But I’ll make sure we don’t stop you. We’ll stay out of each other’s way, yeah?” 

Mace froze in place, turning back to peer at her over his shoulder.

She took a deep breath, then continued, forcing herself not to look over her shoulder: “And if you end up needing information . . . anything that could help . . .”

The Jedi sent a single protracted nod in her direction. “We’ve all got a job to do, Amidala. You do yours. I’ll do mine.” 

With that he disappeared down the hall, leaving Padmé standing alone. 

* * *

Whenever Padmé had complained to Anakin about the number of homes he had—their own apartment, the Jedi Temple, the  _ Coelacanth _ —he’d retort that she had two herself, their place and the palace on Alderaan.  _ And _ , he’d add, being that her second home was intended for royalty, she’d gotten the better end of the deal.

It had never  _ felt _ like home, though. Her room of the palace was certainly nice—balcony overlooking the distant view of snowcapped mountains, a fireplace made to burn  _ real _ wood along one wall, the carpet so soft that barefoot, it almost felt like walking on nothing but air currents. But every time Padmé returned to it, it felt like a fancy hotel suite, a liminal space that was inhabited from time to time but not lived in.

_ You could try to add some personality to it, _ she thought to herself as she stared into the crackling flames, as if looking hard enough would produce something interesting.  _ Set up a weapon rack by your bed or something, see how that scandalizes the staff. Put some holes in the curtains and patch ‘em up. _

An image  _ did _ suddenly flare up in the fire, then—the two of them, putting holes back in the  _ Dancer _ ’s walls and ripping out wires. Heading back to the bunk and losing themselves just for half an hour. Happiest in the middle of chaos—wasn’t that how things had always been?

She hadn’t talked to him in weeks. Just traded half-hearted messages back and forth, like night watchmen glancing up to see each other circle past.

And when they next talked, she had no idea what she would tell him.

_ A Jedi we can trust,  _ she thought, rubbing her thumb along the wood pendant and snorting. Obi-Wan was out. Windu wasn’t wanted. And even if her husband hadn’t cut himself off, she knew she wouldn’t be able to go to him.

When had he  _ become _ Palpatine’s man, anyway? When he started working for the Chancellor directly? Or had that been too late? Maybe it had happened while he was still a Jedi—or even before then, that very first dinner they’d had together with the man, Anakin hanging on the Chancellor’s every word as if he were as much the Jedi’s teacher as Obi-Wan.

“So that leaves . . . Qui-Gon,” she said aloud, chuckling. “And who the hell knows where  _ she _ is.”

_ Should’ve been a bigger part of that side of his life. Gone to the Temple sooner. Met more of them. Given yourself more options, even if you didn’t know you’d  _ need _ options at that stage. _

Then again, maybe that wouldn’t have made any difference. Maybe, when the chips were down, the heroes of the galaxy were only looking out for themselves first and foremost after all. Even Obi-Wan.

Maybe they were what she’d always thought they were after all.

_ Not that we’re any better.  _ She looked out the window—the sun was beginning to set, just touching the crest of the mountains and turning their ice into blazing crystal. The orange glow suffused the sky, the mountains’ stone shading purple in the twilight. Gorgeous.

And here they sat, in this beautiful home, gaining allies piecemeal only to slide back into indecision time and again.

Windu had been right. There was no  _ plan _ . Not just for removing Palpatine, but what happened when it was over. Who did they get to replace him? What did they have the votes to accomplish—and if they couldn’t do it by vote, what kind of might did they have? Who would dismantle the Grand Army, end the annexation of outlying worlds, stop the war?

And what if the people of the galaxy didn’t  _ want _ to be saved? What would those who loved Palpatine say once he was gone, one way or the other?

What would Anakin do?

She hadn’t really thought about that part at all. In her mind things had always just . . . gone back to normal after Palpatine was removed one way or the other. The two of them were together again, and Anakin . . . well, he wasn’t a Jedi anymore, but they’d find something. That shipping business they’d talked about. A windfarm on Oseon. A job here, an adventure there. Whatever it was, they’d be together.

_ It’s never going to be the way it was. And if you’re going to drift apart, it might as well be while you’re doing something that matters, Amidala. _

Unconsciously, in a gesture she’d performed hundreds of times over, she let her hand drift down to the pistol at her hip, though she kept just short of drawing it. Just let her fingertips hover there, tingling, ready to grip her blaster and shoot. Didn’t matter what.

It had been too long since she’d held a weapon in her hands. Felt the  _ Dancer _ ’s deck vibrate beneath her feet as it floated through space. Lived her life not in the nebulous zone of plots and politics but the concrete details of ozone in her lungs and roaring engines in her ears.

Maybe it was time to go back to that.

Leave a note for Bail on the mantelpiece. Go back to Coruscant. Get the ship out of mothballs. Tell Anakin he could come with her, or he could stay.

If he came, great. If not, well. She’d manage on her own. She had long before she knew Anakin Skywalker.

_ Besides, it won’t really be on your own, will it. Not anymore. _

There wasn’t time to think about that, not now. If she didn’t start moving this moment, she’d talk herself into staying another night, and then another. And she didn’t think she’d like the person she’d become by the end of it.

Rising to her feet, Padmé ran her hands along her gunbelt, reassuring herself it was still there, before casting a dubious glance at the evening sky, the afterglow of the sun already beginning to dim. The transit bay might think it odd for her to request a shuttle at this late hour, but she could always tell them it was secret business for Bail. She’d apologize to him later. In a card. Sent from far away.

_ Time to pack up, Amidala. Set off for parts— _

Behind her, someone cleared his throat.

The sound was simultaneously chiding and apologetic, as if a schoolteacher was expressing his regret for having caught a student at something naughty. Padmé knew exactly who it was without having to turn.

“Thought you were gonna keep your head down,” she said, struggling to get the words out for reasons she couldn’t explain.

“Oh, I’m quite capable of that,” came the reply in a clipped Core accent. “Bail doesn’t even know I’m here yet.”

She turned and saw him there—bearded face weary but smiling, a match for the plain brown tunic he wore. He spread his hands as if to say,  _ You’re not going to leave when I just got here, are you? _

“You could come with me this time.”

When she’d hugged him on Coruscant, it had been to verify that he was really there, first and foremost. Then to blow off steam, let some of her fury with him get squeezed out.

This time, she let it linger. The two of them, on the threshold, in a room that didn’t belong to either of them.

Embracing him, she knew she was still here. That she still had things that mattered to her.

_ I won’t tell him,  _ she decided as they pulled apart.  _ Not now, not tonight. It’ll ruin things. He can know later. _

Then he asked her, in a gentle murmur that let her know he’d sensed something the moment he walked in the palace, “Padmé, what’s wrong?”

And she told him.

“I’m pregnant.”

* * *

_**REPUBLIC ARCHIVES: SENATE COMMITTE BRIEFING – EXECUTOR [REDACTED]** _

_ [excerpt from a briefing prepared by [REDACTED] of [REDACTED], for the Senate Defense, Senate Intelligence, and Executive Committees] _

In the interest of accelerating the Republic’s victory against the splintered remains of the CIS, Chancellor Palpatine saw it necessary to employ strategic and precise disruption on the battlefront. To that end, he has created the position of Executor. 

Executor [REDACTED] will report directly to the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, receiving orders to attack key targets in advance of further campaigns by the Grand Army of the Republic. To date, Executor [REDACTED] has already assisted in the capture of Confederate strongholds such as [REDACTED]. 

Reports to this committee on Executor [REDACTED]’s actions will, in the interest of security, be delivered upon completion of their assignments. All future queries on the matter of the position of Executor may be directed to [REDACTED] or [REDACTED]. 


End file.
